


A Most Gentle Heaven

by Weirwoo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, F/M, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:22:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25761310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weirwoo/pseuds/Weirwoo
Summary: It's 1919. Jaime returns from the Great War to find his life irrecoverably changed. The only comfort he finds is in a pair of calm, blue eyes.Set during the time post World War I.Written for the Jaime/Brienne Fic Exchange 2020.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 245
Kudos: 354
Collections: Jaime x Brienne Fic Exchange 2020





	1. One: War

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PrettyThief](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyThief/gifts).



> This fic was written for PrettyThief who has written superb stories for this fandom (please check out their work!). The prompt was: "WW1 AU, either during the war or after."
> 
> Because this fic deals with war, there are descriptions of violence and death and their aftermath.
> 
> The story is set in the real world (specifically England), but has retained a few canon verse place names, so just go with it. I'm also not a historian so most of the story takes place post WWI, in 1919. The ages of our characters have also been altered.
> 
> I have no beta but have done my best, so forgive typos!

The sound of exploding shells is deafening, as clods of black dirt are launched through the air and the ground shudders, and the earth rends with a dark, easy violence. What’s left of the dull sun is obscured by grey dust. It could have easily been night instead of day: the beginning, middle or the end of an interminable long night. Jaime, rifle held in front of him, heaves himself from position to another, trying his best to shelter behind rocks, tree stumps, and defunct tanks, all to avoid the deadly stuttering rain of machine gunfire and whistling projectiles. 

The orders from above had been incredibly foolish, he’d known it at once, but like a mindless idiot, the commander insisted on making that final push in a bid for personal glory, absurdly convinced that the Germans were in retreat. The men – boys really, most of them barely into adulthood – said final prayers and scrambled out of the trenches, roaring out their adrenaline and terror, only to be stopped in their tracks by bullets and artillery fire. Damned sheep indeed to the slaughter. 

Bent and broken barbed wire everywhere – weeks-old bodies no one dare retrieve – endless, sticky mud that clung to the skin. Any trees and hint of green had already been blasted into oblivion months or even years ago. On the field, Jaime sees a boy blown up not five metres from him, a pale young shrub of a kid who secretly smoked cigarettes at night, repeatedly incurring the wrath of fellow soldiers who insisted that Germans would be able to see that minuscule spark in the dark. Jaime witnesses it. One moment the boy is running, screaming in fear and clutching his rifle, perhaps possessed by dreams of glory, firing haphazardly into the air, and in another moment bloody pieces of him are flung into the sky.

Pod, the terrified rookie soldier with the bad stutter, falls in front of him with a terrified wail. Jaime curses. Not soon enough, he hears the command to retreat, as it’s plainly evident that they are all fucked. This whole affair was a bloody suicide mission, futilely fought over a few hundred meters of barren wasteland. Jaime pulls Pod to his feet and half drags him back – lowers the boy slowly into the trench. He turns back to look for other survivors, hauling bodies back the best he can – the smoke burns his lungs and he can barely see through the black fog – when the shell hits, and he is hurled backward into the trench.

Thick mud cushions his fall; his head aches dully, wetness around his ears. He feels at once like he is being met by the cold and very wet embrace of The Stranger, who has finally come to claim his life after having been cheated out of it once before a mere two years ago. Damn, he thinks sluggishly, he had really wanted to survive his goddamn useless and meaningless war. He desperately wants to go home.

Jaime notices now, how warm his right arm is, how alarmingly wet, and lifts his head up and realizes that red is pouring out and he’s bleeding in streams, that the end of his arm is gone. Absurdly, his entire right hand is missing, replaced by torn and bloody shreds that look like bright red ribbons. He gapes and gapes. It is only then that the pain comes. A searing, unbearable pain that makes him want to scream. So he does.

**\--- <<<>>>\---**

The last time Jaime had seen Brienne was two years earlier, in one of the wooden cabins that served as the makeshift hospital close to the French front. There, the air was damp from incessant rain and filled with the metallic smell of blood and iodine and soap. Outside, soldiers and medical personnel were scrambling from hut to hut on makeshift walkways made from rough planks of wood; screams of pain, shouts for help, and sharp orders provided incessant background noise.

Brienne was wearing her volunteer nursing uniform, a prim white cotton apron over a blue dress that fell well above her ankles due to her great height; her feet were covered by sturdy leather boots that laced up to her calves. Jaime mused how well the blue went with her eyes. He had stood near the doorway, admiring her purposeful movements which had none of the awkwardness he remembered from years before. Her face was set in determination, her body bent over a hurt soldier and frowning at his unsightly belly wound. She cleaned the whole bloody mess with calm deliberation and steady hands. Jaime thought he had seen nothing so magnificent in motion since he joined the war. She was brisk, efficient, comforting. He was grateful then, that he had survived thus far, to be able to see this side of Brienne – no longer awkward – focused and full of purpose, as if all the answers to life’s questions had been set before her and all she had to do was pick them up one by one.

She finally noticed him dawdling idly in the doorway. She blushed a deep pink when he flashed her a merry smile. Luckily, there had been a break in the fighting in recent days; the hospital wasn’t as busy as it usually would have been. Brienne murmured a few words to the head nurse, washed her hands, and came to him. Her eyes roamed over him from head to toe, more of a nurse’s assessment than a friendly or admiring one; she seemed to be making sure that he was sound, put back together, whole again. He was, of course. The damned infection that nearly took his eye was all better, and the laceration on his thigh was healing stupendously, though he would sport an impressive scar for the rest of his days.

The afternoon was thankfully dry, though grey clouds rolled in the distance, threatening even more rain, and mud caked their boots; it was never really dry enough for there never to be mud. They strolled away from the cabins and out into the nearby field where short little trees randomly grew. It almost felt peaceful.

Brienne smiled at him, her face bright. The sight of her smile made his chest suddenly constrict. Her face was like a light in his endless days of darkness and mud, especially down in the trenches. Like the sun peeking over clouds.

“Jaime, you look well. Fit. I’m glad to see it.”

“With thanks to you, Brienne.” He stared at the wisp of yellow hair that had escaped her white nurse headdress. He had an absurd urge to tuck the errant thing back under the crisp cotton, behind her ears.

“It was rather remarkable that you ended up in my cabin – I had no idea that you were fighting nearby – in the beginning, I had hoped to encounter you or Gal, but never expected it to happen. There are so many boys that come through here.” She let out an exhausted sigh.

It was astonishing, to say the least, agreed Jaime. After being wounded, he remembered opening his eyes, feeling intense pain on his face and leg, and eventually looking up to see those big blue eyes, glistening and shining down at him like the brightest stars. He would have believed it if someone had told him he’d died and awoken in heaven, her eyes and expression were so angelic and good. He was indescribably glad to see her. Brienne was unattractive by all objective standards, but at that moment, Jaime thought that if her face was the last one he saw on this earth or the first to greet him in the afterlife, he would die quite happily. He paused and frowned, reminding himself about Cersei, who also had pretty eyes, so much like his. But he had never equated his sister with anything resembling the angelic. She certainly had never been calming in all her life.

He cleared his throat. “Well, my dear angel, I had hoped to stick around and annoy you with my presence for a little while longer, but I’m here to say farewell.” He tried to keep his voice light, as if he wasn’t well aware of the madness he’d be thrown back into.

Her mouth twisted and a furrow appeared between her brows. “What? They can’t be sending you back already. You’re barely healed, Jaime!” She grabbed his arm hard, as if to fix him onto this very spot. Her eyes were blazing points of rage. Yes, she was furious, but not at him. It made him glad, somehow, to have someone in his corner. She looked like she wanted to fight every single one of the commanders who were pushing him back to the front.

The heat of her hand burned through the fabric of his wool uniform and coat. He was reminded of how strong she was, how she had thrown him in the dirt more than a few times. Gods, if only they could go back to those days. He wouldn’t like anything more than to spar with her again. To just go back, rewind time and enjoy the cherished gilded summers of their youth, when everything felt warm and alive, when they didn’t have a care in the world. He pried her fingers loose and carefully held them in his hands. The skin on her hand was rough and cracked, but no less lovely for the good they had accomplished.

“There’s no reason why they wouldn’t send me back. I’m as healthy as anyone out there at this point. At least I got a bit of a rest and good food in my belly, which is something the boys out there couldn’t say.” He gave her a roguish grin. “You never know, maybe I’ll be lucky another time and actually survive the war in one piece.”

“It’s not fair. You’ve just barely escaped from getting killed, and being blinded.” Gods, Brienne always burned with a sense of justice. It was one of the things that made her both infuriating and admirable. She was so different from the Lannisters in that way. She had always seen everything so clearly.

“Chin up, angel. The blasted war is sure to end soon. We’ve been at it for years. Both sides are sure to run out of young men to kill.” It surprised Jaime now, how quickly soldiers were promoted to officers as men were dying off – he had made captain without doing much, it seemed.

She gave him a disapproving look, scowling. He nearly laughed. Seeing her familiar sour expression warmed him to the bottom of his heart. Her scowls were terribly comforting. Unable to resist, he reached out and finally tucked that stubborn escaping hair back under the white cotton on her head. She looked much too worried. Poor wench. Her eyes were sad, _for him_ , he realized. He felt a little glad that she would be the last familiar face he would see before being put into the truck and driven back to the bloody trenches, likely to a certain death. This time, there would likely be no escape.

The tip of her chin wobbled and her eyes shone with tears, which made her eyes look unbearably blue. Suddenly, she threw her long arms around him, her body nearly knocking him to the ground. She was big and solid and he felt warm and fully embraced in her arms. He was at first a little surprised, for they had rarely hugged in the past, but he found himself squeezing her back, probably a little too tightly; if Brienne were a smaller woman, he would have hurt her from the force of his returning embrace. But Brienne was large and tough, but also infinitely gentle and kind. He wanted to stay in her arms and find comfort there; it seemed to Jaime that he had never felt as safe since he joined the war. She was all at once his childhood and a source of happiness, a connection to his past, his home.

When they finally pulled apart, Jaime felt an acute sense of loss. He was afraid that this would be the last time he would see her. A sense of unease seeped into his skin like a chill. Shadows of the trenches came back to him. The darkness and smoke like a never-ending nightmare. He could almost smell the dirt, mud and piss.

“I’ll write to Tyrion about how you are,” Brienne said resolutely, the tears that threatened to flood her eyes held back with effort. She reached out and lightly touched the pendant that hung from his neck, her fingers tracing the hollow of his throat – the kindness of her gesture making his chest constrict with unknown emotion.

He gave her a long look and paused. “If anything happens…”

“Jaime, no…”

“Tell him I love him. Tell him I died bravely, even if I didn’t.”

“ _Jaime_.” Her eyes were wide, almost frightened. She trembled almost imperceptibly. She clutched the cotton of his shirt in a tight grip.

“Brienne. Please.” He had the strangest feeling that he was being led to his doom. He noticed his voice had taken on a desperate edge.

She sighed but finally nodded solemnly. “I will tell Tyrion.” She tightened her lips. “And I’ll also tell Cersei that you love her.”

Jaime’s stomach cramped painfully. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that Cersei had not written to him in the entire two years he’d been gone, despite the embarrassingly effusive, love-sick letters he wrote to her in the beginning of the war. It was Tyrion who wrote to him now, and of course the occasional note from Brienne and his father. From Tyrion, he’d recently learned that Cersei was engaged to the disgustingly rich industrialist Robert Baratheon, who was deemed a little too valuable in his manufacturing role to be drafted into the absurd war. When he’d first learned the news, he was glad that the hell he was experiencing in the muddy trenches matched the hell he was feeling inside himself. For a time, he became reckless, not caring whether he lived or died. But oh, he did care now. He wanted to live. He wanted to survive this stupid, senseless war.

He remained silent, but Jaime took her hand to his lips and kissed it. Just as he expected, a vivid pink flush came over her complexion. He loved it and couldn’t repress a bright smile. It was like watching a sunrise.

**\--- <<<>>>\---**

Although the Armistice was signed nearly five months ago, Jaime only returns from war in the Spring of 1919. Back in England, the land somehow remains the same, as if violence had not darkly swarmed over the world nearly five years earlier. The trees are still tall and green, making fluttering noises as the wind rustles through the leaves. Jaime hears birds sing again, closing his eyes in awe and delighting in their sharp little melodies. Perhaps the birds had died, or perhaps they merely stopped singing across the water, but all the birds on the warfront had been silent. Hearing them again now is a wonder.

On an impulse, Jaime asks the driver to drop him off before the gates, so he could enjoy the vista of home before him. Standing there now, he should feel – what? – relief, anticipation? He doesn’t know exactly how he feels, except he is exhausted, ground down, dragged through the dirt. Across the water, France is bombed out, grey, barren, with craters and holes instead of trees and hills. Much of the land there is the site of mass graves. Here – back _home_ , hills and fields are impossibly green. It seems incredible, being on this side of the war. He had nearly shed tears when he set foot on English soil for the first time in years. Seeing how bright and green the trees, grass and everything around him are makes him feel a little more alive despite the very sorry state he is in. 

Casterly Manor is just as dignified looking as when he left it years earlier, all that red brick and wrought iron reminding Jaime of an ornate fortress. He feels a strange squirming in his belly. Seeing the looming edifice before him, he does not know if he is happy to be home, even though he has literally dreamed of this moment. He enters through the side door, successfully avoiding the servants, and slips into the parlour. He pauses, regarding the sight before him. 

Cersei is sitting on the chaise, incongruously holding a large pink seashell. He must have drawn in a breath, for she looks up and pales as she sees him. He can’t help but gape. She is as beautiful as he remembers, golden and perfect, though in the last couple of years he had put the memories of her away in a box and locked it, the key hidden somewhere far away in his mind. Seeing her wide-eyed before him, he does not think that he loves her any more, but he is nonetheless moved: by her long, silky honey blond hair, her shapely figure in a light pink afternoon frock, the perfect symmetry of her face. They are twins, he needs to remind himself, but he is a pathetic echo of her now. He realizes with bitterness that he is no longer a match for her beauty. She used to tell him, all the time, how they were two parts of the same soul, that they were exactly the same and belonged together. How alike they looked was her point of pride, it was her evidence. No longer.

“Jaime,” she gasps, her eyes widening in alarm, letting the shell in her hands clatter to the floor.

“Sister.”

“We all thought you were dead.” Cersei gapes. He has rarely seen his sister so bewildered – she was usually so calculated, practiced, controlled. A volcano under a sheet of ice. She seems undone by his apparition and her mouth trembles. The sight of her so overwhelmed touches him. The memories between them rise, sharp as daggers, glinting and golden. A faint hope stirs in him.

He quickly walks toward her, feeling the old pull, wanting to be in her arms just one last time. Wanting her kisses, her smell, her taste. Wanting to be united inside her. She stands up, a small smile starting on her lips, readying for his familiar embrace, but when he reaches out his arms, she sees – she _sees_ – the ugly and scarred stump of what’s left of his right arm and recoils, a horror taking over her face. Her expression stops him short. He lowers his arms immediately. Stares back at his sister. He feels paralyzed.

“Your hand.”

“I’m short of one.” Jaime forces himself to smile sardonically.

Every expression in her body is repulsed, he can feel the sheer force of it. Jaime instinctively knows that he has disappointed her. He knows that even if he wanted to, she would never let him touch her again. She would never _want_ to touch him ever again.

She rings a bell. She tells the manservant to inform her father that Jaime is returned and to ready his rooms. Her face is a mask now, a politely smiling mask. He can tell she desperately wants to move away from him. Having him within an arm’s length is too much for her, even when Jaime has stopped in his tracks in the midst of embracing her.

He is frozen, unable to move toward or away from his secret lover, his twin, whom he was once convinced was the love of his life. He feels a darkness burrowing into whatever’s left of his soul. It is not an unusual thought, nor is it a thought that had never come to him all too often before, but it returns to him again now: perhaps it would have been better if he perished after all, than living this continuing hell, his future a barren wasteland, his love splintered to sharp pieces.


	2. Two: Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: descriptions of Jaime/Cersei here, but nothing graphic. Canon-level abuse.
> 
> Ages have been changed to fit the story. Jaime is only four years older than Brienne, and she and Tyrion are the same age.

Casterly Manor rests atop a hill, surrounded by wild shrubs and untamed forests, and beyond the cliffs, the sea; within the vast estate, the gardens, in contrast to its untamed surroundings, are landscaped with precision and control, the lawn always perfect, green, pristine. At the edge of the property is even a large ornamental maze which takes hours upon hours to maintain, even though barely anyone enters. At Casterly and its environs, it is as if nature and architecture are dueling for prominence; within the gates, order always wins.

For decades, the Lannisters are the only family for miles, with the nearest town, Lannisport, a ten-minute carriage ride away. Jaime has vague memories of lawn parties, of laughter, of crowds gathering in the grand room. Of his mother fussing over him and Cersei, feeding them fruit ices, his little body surrounded by the soft taffeta of her dresses. He remembers the light she exuded in the gloomy rooms of Casterly. When she died, that light disappeared, and he and Cersei, along with baby Tyrion, resided in darkness and shadows. His father stopped smiling and left them to the care of nannies and servants. Over time, Cersei learned to command them, these servants, and developed a disdain that had since become part of her nature. Yet she loved father, despite his absence. And she loved Jaime. That was all. She hated more than she loved.

One summer, when the Tarths took over the nearby estate – a rather smaller, shabby one compared to Casterly, the entire house was abuzz with excitement. Selwyn Tarth was an old army compatriot of their father who served with him in the first Boer war. There were three of them in the family: the father, an older boy who was fourteen, two years younger than Jaime, and a girl who was twelve and of age as Tyrion. Apparently the Tarths, too, were motherless. Tywin did not have friends per se, but he and Selwyn sometimes dined together and smoked cigars in father’s study, speaking of politics and agriculture and industry. Jaime was in awe of Selwyn, who was taller than anyone he’d ever met, with strange blue eyes and kind but absent-minded nature. He did not seem to inspire fear in his children, unlike Tywin. That in itself was a strange novelty.

When Jaime first saw the Tarth children, he thought they were twins, just like him and Cersei, since they were of the same height. The boy, Galladon, was even more golden than Jaime, with pale, blond strands that always fell into his eyes. He was not nearly as good-looking as Jaime, but had straight, white teeth and a wide smile that lit up his sky blue eyes. The sister though, was monstrous – freakishly tall, all arms and legs, crooked nose, overfull mouth, bland, colourless skin with light brown freckles everywhere. Still a child at only twelve, yet nearly adult-like in her stature. The only redeeming thing about her were her eyes, which were deep blue and the most beautiful he had ever seen. Cersei hated her on sight, and narrowed her gaze whenever the girl was around. She made cruel comments under her breath to Jaime about her cow eyes and hideous brown spots. He was already well under Cersei’s thrall at that point, and agreed and laughed along with his twin, even though he did not think the girl was so horrendous once you caught a glimpse of her pretty eyes.

**\--- <<<>>>\---**

When his sister was busy learning feminine social graces and taking lessons accordingly, Jaime found himself taking the Tarth brother and sister around Casterly. He actually liked Galladon, who was always smiling though he seemed slightly oblivious at times, without the sharp wit that Jaime was accustomed to with his own family. At first, Jaime minded that the boy allowed his ugly little sister to follow them around like an eager puppy, but he soon got used to her hulking form and that beastly face of hers. She hated Jaime, though. She glared at him when he laughed too loudly or teased her in fun. He supposed he had deserved it, after falling in line with Cersei and her cruelty. Yet she amused him – she was so easy to poke and rouse, though her wits seemed much sharper than her brother.

“Shouldn’t you be like Cersei and stay inside, learn to be a lady?” He jeered one day, suddenly roused and restless. His sister had been in one of her moods, had pushed him away and mocked him for his dullness.

Jaime glanced at Galladon, who was snoring nearby on the grass. Tyrion stared at him in disbelief, shaking his head disapprovingly. The Tarths, bless them, did not make fun of his brother’s dwarfism, but was all kindness. This made him feel just a little guilty at how his mouth ran toward the ugly sister. Yet, it was terribly fun to tease the giant girl, as she was so reactive and so utterly straightforward. He loved to make her go red.

“Why should I?” She scowled at him. Her face dulled with suspicion.

“Because,” Jaime looked pointedly at her up and down, “Despite all appearances, you’re a girl. And girls shouldn’t be gallivanting with boys. Cersei’s learning needlework right now. Why don’t you join her?”

“Jaime,” Tyrion protested. Jaime smiled crookedly at the twisted, furious face of Brienne. 

“The last thing I want to be like is your horrible sister,” Her eyes were lit with anger. Her tone was steely. Oh, she meant those words, Jaime was sure of it. But his sister was the most graceful and loveliest girl in all of England, how dare this beast of a girl insult her.

“Well, that’s good, because you’ll never be like her.” He glared at the dour girl. His blood was boiling – Cersei – gods, Cersei was beautiful and perfect. Suddenly, he was struck by inspiration.

“Gods, did your mother fuck a particularly ugly bull, to make you come out looking that way?” 

Before he’d had time to smirk, she flew at him, her considerable bulk pinning him to the ground, and she got in a punch that made his head spin. Amongst the chaos, he didn’t understand how this was possible, the girl was _twelve_ , and he was four years older besides; yet he was furious that she dared touch him. He found himself pushing back, and soon enough they were taking turns hitting each other and wrestling and shoving each other onto the grass. In the background, he heard Tyrion’s alarmed shouting and soon enough he was being dragged away, and Galladon was glaring at him, fists at the ready.

“Hells, Jaime! That’s my sister – she’s only bloody twelve!” 

Jaime sagged. He was more than a little ashamed and obviously realized that things went out of control. He was unchivalrous, and had completely forgotten how darned young she was, and a girl besides. He cringed when he realized the truth of those words. He hung his head.

Brienne declared in a loud voice. “Gods, Gal, we were just playing. It wasn’t a real fight.”

Jaime looked up, stunned at what he was hearing. Tyrion gawped. Brienne gave him a scornful, dismissive glance, her cheeks bruised and red, smeared blood at the corner of her cut mouth. The set of her face was determined and steely. 

She gave the same explanation to their fathers, and all Jaime could do was nod, his right eye already developing an impressive shiner. It turned out that this wasn’t the first fist fight that the overgrown terror had been in. Selwyn sighed, while Tywin stared in cold disapproval at him and his lack of control. Jaime shivered under his gaze.

“You make it a habit of punching boys, do you?” Jaime sneered after they were dismissed, not feeling all that thankful that she had more or less saved his hide from his father.

“Only the ones that deserve it,” the petulant girl replied coolly, looking at him like he was lower than an insect. Galladon and Tyrion snickered.

The surprising result was that the boys – and the Tarth girl – would be given boxing lessons by a Mr. Goodwin, former boxing champion in the region. Tyrion stayed for the first few lessons – mainly to learn how to protect himself and use his small stature to outwit much larger bullies – but he was much more interested in exploring the vast Casterly library than in any sport. Galladon took it in the spirit of fun, going through the lessons as if he was having the time of his life, but not particularly paying attention to technique.

Not so for Brienne and Jaime. They took the lessons seriously, and the girl practiced with determination, obviously giving her all into every punch. Jaime felt the same, and their practice bouts became so passionate that Mr. Goodwin had to physically intervene a few times. That girl was unnaturally strong, even stronger than her brother, and nearly knocked over Jaime once or twice. He saw in her blue eyes a promise that one day she would be knocking him over into the dirt on a regular basis.

\---<<<>>>\---

He, Galladon, and Tyrion went to Crakehall boarding school when summer ended. Cersei and Brienne were taught at home by private tutors and governesses, though lord knows that the two of them wouldn’t have had any contact. His sister still detested the girl and Brienne was weary and largely indifferent to Cersei. Galladon confessed to both Tyrion and Jaime that his sister had endured worse abuse on Tarth, how boys would taunt her and make fun of her unfortunate looks. She had taken, with a few notable and violent exceptions, the proverb ‘Words are Wind’ to heart. Jaime suddenly felt shame about his behaviour – surely he counted as one of those tormentors that she had to endure in her life and caused her to suffer. After learning this, Tyrion started writing letters to Brienne, having found their experiences of being the mockery of most of the world to be quite the bonding experience.

As for Jaime, he spent his days thinking of Cersei, and nights dreaming of Cersei. It was almost a year ago, during last Christmas break, that she had snuck to his bed in the middle of the night and kissed him. He was overwhelmed by her loveliness and warmth and still drowsy from sleep. He’d first thought he was dreaming, that she was a fairy princess come to take him away. As she continued to kiss him and touch him all over, he was confused and half-asleep and in the end, very aroused. She kept on repeating that because they were twins, they were one soul in two people, and the only way to be whole was to unite their two bodies. To his lust-ravaged mind and in the presence of such overwhelming beauty and warm caresses, he could only agree. But what they began that night, they could not stop. Cersei was smart – she had bullied the scullery maids to bring her a regular supply of moon tea, and pried secrets out of them about how to satisfy a man and how to avoid being with child.

When Jaime sunk himself into her, he felt a warmth he had never experienced before. He thought it love, that it felt right, and he wholly surrendered himself into Cersei’s fragrant and pliant flesh. She rejoiced in his reactions to her, and saw that she had a power over him that she never had before. Oh, he knew what they did was morally and legally wrong, but he could not resist the pull of her seductions. While at Crakehall, he thought of his sister constantly and dreamed about her. He touched himself to the memories of her late at night, when everyone was asleep.

Winter break did not come soon enough. Cersei welcomed him back into her bed, looking more and more beautiful. That winter was particularly tricky as Cersei had invited her friend Melara to stay with them the week before Christmas. They had to be careful, only sneaking around in the dead of night. Tywin, who was preoccupied with business in London, had no clue about the sins his twins were committing together on a near nightly basis. Jaime suspected Tyrion knew, as he gave Jaime disturbed, disapproving stares. Cersei continued to be cruel to their brother, just as she was cruel to Brienne. But Jaime was much too in love to intervene in either case.

One day, Jaime heard a commotion downstairs in the foyer, and saw a thoroughly drenched Melara standing in the foyer, sobbing and crying, her small body shivering from the cold, wrapped in a blanket but still dripping water onto the shiny parquet floors. She was standing next to an exhausted looking Brienne. Tywin and Selwyn were near, looking on disapprovingly. Tyrion stared at the whole scene with shrewd, sharp eyes, while Cersei was oddly pale and looked strangely terrified. 

Slowly, the story unraveled. Brienne had saved the girl from a tragic death in an old well located on the edges of a nearby abandoned property. Melara and Cersei had gone ice skating that afternoon. Jaime remembered that Cersei had come back alone but was in unusually good spirits. Meanwhile, Brienne had been tramping about the land, as was her custom, and heard the faint but desperate screams of the girl. She quickly opened the lid to the well and lowered the rope and valiantly saved the girl’s life, like a knight in some fairy tale. Jaime thought that Melara was lucky that the Tarth girl was so abnormally strong and had her wits about her.

Tywin moved quickly – the girl was seen by a doctor and sent home, silence presumably bought. Family lawyers invaded the house. His father then met privately with Cersei, who was uncharacteristically humbled and contrite after the meeting. Afterwards, all seemed to be forgotten. But Jaime never forgot. He remembered how Melara glanced at his sister with abject fear that evening, her brown hair hanging wet from her face and her long dress muddied and clinging to her skinny legs. She was blue and pale and shivering and flinched at the sight of his lovely sister. That night Cersei complained bitterly about Brienne and spewed such vitriol toward the younger girl that even Jaime was shocked. After that, he was happy to return to Crakehall when the holidays ended. Jaime was disturbed and discomforted about his sister and what she was capable of – even being in her warm arms the last few nights did not nourish him as he thought it would. 

“Why are you doing this, Jaime?” Tyrion said, when they found themselves alone in their dorm. 

“Doing what?”

“She’s vile – she’s evil – you saw what she did to Melara”

“It was an accident, she didn’t mean for it to go that far,” Jaime rationalized – gods, he even sounded pathetic to his own ears.

“If it hadn’t been for Brienne–” Tyrion gave him a look from his one black and green eye that stripped him of his defenses.

“I know. But I can’t believe she meant to...kill her?” Jaime shook his head. He had to believe it was a mere accident.

“You’re a fool.” Tyrion looked at him, his jaw tight. His face was stern, disapproving, reminding him exactly of their father. “She’s your own twin, for god’s sake.”

“Exactly. You don’t understand. I love her.” Jaime’s mouth was a firm line. Guilt and anger clawed at him, and instead of smashing a glass or throwing books on the floor as he had the impulse to do, he stormed out.

“You should stop now – before it gets too late, brother,” his little brother shouted after him.

“It is too late, Tyrion.” He said to himself, out of earshot of his very sensible brother. He knew in his heart that the words were true. It was entirely too late.

**\--- <<<>>>\---**

In the following summers, Tyrion ended up spending more of his spare time with Galladon and Brienne in the Tarth home. Predictably, Cersei became even more hostile, though her outward charms toward others appeared to multiply. She had the ability to employ grace and sweet words whenever she needed it, and this, combined with her beauty, made her irresistible to most. She was generous with gifts and compliments to those in her favour, and to those she wanted favours from. 

Already out in society, Cersei received invitations to parties that she forced Jaime to attend as her chaperone. Of course, Jaime could never say no to her. He was by her side as she flitted in diaphanous dresses around throngs of admiring crowds, gorgeous and decorative as a jewel-encrusted butterfly. She was proud of being on his arm, especially now that he was in Oxford and had grown even taller and more handsome, the perfect match to her elegant golden figure. The guilt about incest and fucking his sister had faded away over the years. Pleasure became all. They believed because they were twins and Lannisters that they were above the laws of Gods and men. They became even more reckless, finding abandoned rooms to fuck in as the parties went on all around them. He thought he had never been more in love. 

Summer afternoons at Casterly were lazy and warm. They spread themselves on blankets on the grass, far away from the manor. Even Cersei joined them occasionally, white parasol in hand, eating daintily and staring at Brienne laughing her horsey laugh, a sound which Jaime found had suddenly become endearing to his ears.

True, Brienne was still ugly and awkward and stomping, but he thought that he liked looking at her face more and more, especially when she smiled that wide smile of hers. They still trained with Mr. Goodwin in the summers, and it was just he and Brienne now, the others having grown bored. Jaime admired her as an opponent. In the ring she was strong, forceful. He could see her firm muscles beneath the thin cotton of her shirt, the length of her legs in shorts that ended well above her knees.

For a woman, dressing this way would have been scandalous. But for Brienne, it just seemed normal; of course, he secretly admired her long limbs and pale flesh. He wondered vaguely if it hadn’t been for Cersei, if he would have lusted after her. He wondered even more vaguely if his brother hadn’t fallen for her. He quickly dismissed the thought – Tyrion had the perverse notion that the only women who’d be interested in him had to be paid, so he had begun, in his sixteenth year, to frequent high class brothels in Lannisport. It was the only kind of love, he said a little sadly, that an ugly dwarf like him could ever have.

Doubts about Cersei had implanted itself in his mind since Melara’s near tragic fall, and had only grown as she complained bitterly about the women – both young and old – who threw themselves at Jaime, even though he had no eyes for anyone except his sweet siste . She was also resentful of him going off to Oxford while she languished at home, waiting to be married off to the highest bidder. He was not deaf to her continued insults at Brienne and Tyrion, and divorced himself from joining in those comments as he would have done in years past. He was afraid that in her hatred, Cersei was becoming twisted and blackened in spirit, despite her growing outward beauty. He wondered if it was in his power to save her – if, indeed, she was his responsibility.

Despite his reservations about his sister’s character, he still wanted to run away with her to Australia or Canada so they could start a new life properly as man and wife. That, or they should stop what they were doing. He felt at an impasse – he couldn’t imagine them continuing on as they were – somehow, he felt he was missing something from their love.

One day, he had led her into the middle of the maze, a place that was secluded enough to have this discussion, a discussion they’d already had a few times before. In this instance, they were sitting on the bench and she was calling him a fool.

“Jaime, have you gone mad or are you stupid enough to believe that this plan of yours will work?” Her green eyes flashed at him as her nails dug into his arm so hard that it hurt.

He had plied her with persuasive kisses, soft words, compelling arguments for them to run away together. They could start over, live as true husband and wife, he’d said. They could own land and farm it and raise their children in nature. They’d be happy, he’d insisted. They could be together forever, as nature had intended.

“I’m not going to throw my life away to go off with you to some – some – backwater infested with mosquitoes so I can get malaria and work my fingers to the bone,” she fumed. She pushed him away.

Jaime was dejected, his heart felt hollow. “But you said we belong together, we were meant to be together,” he protested. He desperately wanted to save her.

She rolled her eyes and slapped him. He barely felt it though his heartache, though he heard the loud slap land heavily on him. He felt his cheek become wet. He reached up and saw that it was blood. Her rings had cut him.

Cersei had sense enough to look remorseful, and dabbed his now throbbing cheek with her white lace handkerchief. 

“Look what you made me do,” she murmured, kissing his injured cheek.

“Cersei – we need to stop this between us. We can’t go on like this.” He felt utterly unmoored, bobbing in an ocean of pain and confusion.

“Shhh…” she cooed into his neck, and she kissed him softly, pulling him toward her and straddling him.

Soon she was opening his mouth with her tongue and lavishing the most passionate kisses on him, and he could feel the heat of her slim body through her clothes. He opened his eyes, trying to resist, but she was too sweet, as she started to kiss his neck and lower her hands down his chest. It would have gone further – _much, much further_ – if he hadn’t tilted his head up and glimpsed the trembling figure of Brienne, tall and ungainly, her face absolutely white and shocked at the sight of two siblings in their indecent embrace. She was silent when she turned away and ran. Cersei was oblivious, continuing to kiss him and suck at his neck. Whatever ardor that had nearly overtaken him was immediately extinguished by the sight of the appalled, pale face of Brienne. Jaime urgently pushed his sister away, and she gave an angry cry, glaring at him.

“Has your guilt finally dampened your lust for me, brother?” Cersei seethed, her cheeks red from the sting of rejection. Jaime realized suddenly that this was the first time that he had refused Cersei in anything. She laughed bitterly. 

“Grow up, Jaime. One would have thought that going to university would have taught you something about real life, but here you are, still dreaming schoolgirl fantasies of romance. You should have been born the girl, not me.” Her voice was hard, jagged. She straightened her gown, and walked away, leaving him sitting dejectedly on the stone bench.

**\--- <<<>>>\---**

He first looked for her in the gym, but eventually found her sitting on the grass with a view that overlooked the sea. Brienne gazed at him wearily when he sat beside her. She appeared shaken and thoroughly miserable.

She looked mulish and ugly and was blotchy from crying. She bit her lip and gave him a side glance. “I won’t tell, you know.”

“I never thought you would.” It was true. He was never scared that she would run to tell Gal or her father or his. She was just too good.

“I don’t understand.”

Jaime sighed. “We’re in love.”

“You’re brother and sister.” Her face was sullen, closed off.

Jaime raked his fingers through his hair, agitated. “We were all we had when our mother died. Father rather rejected us. Cersei hated Tyrion. We became close. Then, a few years ago, we became even closer. Much more than siblings ever should.” Jaime hung his head, unable to meet those clear eyes of hers.

“It’s wrong. You should stop.” Brienne nearly whispered those words. He looked at her now, expecting hate and disgust, but he was surprised to find sadness and compassion there instead.

“I wish I could stop.” Jaime rubbed his hand harshly on his forehead. “I’ve thought about it. Cersei is not easy to love.”

“I can’t imagine she would be.” Brienne reached out a tentative hand and touched the cut on his cheek, the gift from Cersei. “Does it hurt?”

“No, not anymore.”

Brienne tilted her head. “Does she love you? Why does she hit you?”

Jaime felt a surge of defensiveness. “She’s just passionate, we fight a lot and things get out of control.” The moment he said those words, he felt the inadequacy of them.

She looked at him coolly. “You’re better than her, you know. A better person.”

“What would you know? You hate me.”

“No, I don’t. I thought you hated _me_. Then I realized you were just copying your sister.”

He sighed, and dipped his head low. Shame ran through him. “I’m sorry.” 

Brienne shrugged. “I’ve heard it all before.” She tilted her head. “You can stop this, Jaime,” she repeated.

He let out a frustrated growl. “We can’t choose who we love. I suspect you’ll learn that soon enough.” She looked stricken, as if he had said something wounding. She flushed and turned her face away, hiding her eyes from him. 

“Brienne?”

She gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “It’s nothing.” She graced him with those beams of blue again. “Now that I know, Jaime, if you need someone – to talk to, I’m – I’m – here.”

He was astonished by her kindness and so overwhelmed that he took her hand into his. 

“Thank you,” he managed to say, despite the tightening in his throat.

**\--- <<<>>>\---**

Brienne vehemently did not want her coming out ball, declaring that they were old-fashioned, but she was well past sixteen and it was long due in their social circle. So it was that Jaime found her crumpled on a bench in a dark corner, brooding in an awful pink gown that made her look sallow and did her absolutely no favours. Time had not softened her features. At her full height, Brienne was even taller than Jaime, with thick, strong arms and legs. The gown pulled at her arms and shoulders and made her look ridiculous. The dress was much too short, scandalously revealing surprisingly delicate ankles and well-turned calves. She looked as miserable as a poor prisoner waiting for execution.

“Your dress,” Jaime began, as soon as he saw her.

She cringed. “I know. It’s horrible. Cersei picked it out for me.”

“Gods, Brienne, what were you thinking, asking for Cersei’s help?” It was unsurprising that Cersei would suggest the most gods awful gown for Brienne. She was petty that way. Jaime did not quite understand the special ire his twin reserved for sour but harmless Brienne.

She huffed. “I know. I just didn’t want to choose a dress. I don’t want any of this.”

“Too bad you can’t leave your own coming out ball,” Jaime teased.

“Don’t tempt me,” she grumbled, making Jaime laugh out loud.

Despite Brienne’s very vocal reservations, Selwyn’s staff had transformed the derelict old ballroom into a pleasant garden scape, with flowers and vines decorating the walls and ceiling. There were bowls of delicate white roses on tables, a punch bowl cooled by floating ice swans, and neat rows of intricate little canapes and platters of fruit and chocolates.

Jaime, knowing he was looking quite resplendent in his tuxedo, trilled at the admiring looks of young women and the envious glances of young men. As the evening went on, he was enjoying how several young women were eagerly leaning forward to properly display their cleavage to him. Jaime wasn’t tempted, of course, he was never tempted, but he needed to play the eligible heir and he wasn’t sore at the sights and slight touches that were generously bestowed upon him by young, perfumed women.

“I see that this ball has puffed up your ego considerably, Jaime.” Tyrion gave him a sarcastic glance. He pulled out a silver flask and took a sip, grimacing as the liquor burned his throat.

Jaime shook his head when it was offered to him. “Well, Tyrion. Far be it for me to deprive the young ladies of the sight of the handsomest man in England in all his finery.”

His brother rolled his eyes, then scanned the room. He narrowed his gaze, leaned toward Jaime and spoke with a concerned voice. “Look to our sweet sister, brother.” 

Cersei was resplendent in her tightly corseted red gown that showed off her plump and perfect breasts and swirled down her curvaceous hips. When he first saw her in the dress, he had to restrain himself from ravaging her in the hallway, much to her smug satisfaction. He idly wondered if he could find a lost little room he could pull her into that night. Tyrion cleared his throat and he finally noticed that their dear sister was laughing maliciously with a group of girls, and all of them staring at Brienne with mocking smirks. A sense of dread trickled down his spine. He looked around – Galladon was nowhere to be found – under the stairs with a pretty little thing, he guessed.

Brienne was on the dance floor looking humiliated as a crowd of young men jeered around her. Almost automatically, Jaime found himself rushing toward her, all thought of secret kisses with his sweet sister forgotten. Brienne was mottled red, mortified, but she drew her hands into fists at her side. Her knuckles were clenched white with effort. Jaime knew she was about to attack – either that, or run off crying.

“Who’d want to dance with the likes of you, ugly beast?” one red-haired dolt announced.

Another brown-haired man with a face like a lump of melting butter laughed like a hyena. “Gods, she actually thought we wanted to dance with her!” Other men in the group joined in their mocking laughter. 

“You couldn’t pay me to dance – or fuck – his freak!” The men sneered and guffawed at the poor girl.

Jaime felt a rise of fury in his veins. The group startled as he bound toward them in a rage.

“Why would Miss Tarth dance with the likes of worthless scum like you when she has promised her dances to me?” Jaime gave the men his most superior, disdainful look, sharply razing his gaze over their ill-fitting suits, greasy hair and droopy moustaches. “And if I hear any one of you say another word disparaging the most noble, wonderful Miss Tarth, my fists will have a private word with you later.” His voice was cutting and edged with blades.

The men visibly gulped and nodded, the whole pimpled group of them growing pale and quickly dispersing.

“Come, Miss Tarth.” Jaime led a trembling Brienne out to the edges of the dance floor. Her face was flushed with anger and hurt and humiliation, but she mutely went along when Jaime held her and placed his other hand on the small of her back.

“You don’t have to–” she began, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Don’t let those bastards see you cry, Brienne.”

Her chin wobbled, but she held her head up high, her expression defiant.

“There. That’s my girl,” Jaime murmured, bringing her body slightly closer. He was surprised at the grace of her movements. Of course she had endured the same dancing lessons, just as he and Cersei had. But the music was truly fine, and he hadn’t danced like this in ages. He smiled at her, his face soft, willing her to lose herself in the rising and falling melody.

Soon enough, Jaime could tell that she was enjoying the dancing too, as the embarrassment in her eyes faded and was replaced by delight. Her cheeks were pink, reminding him of ripe apples. She closed her eyes during a particularly romantic sweep of music as Jaime twirled her about, and she drew her head slightly back to reveal that elegant long neck of hers which he had thus far failed to notice. He had a mad impulse to kiss her there – just for a moment – and he felt more and more conscious of her solid warmth in his arms. He felt his blood warm with pleasure.

All too soon, Galladon came to ask for a dance, as he gave Jaime a grateful look and patted him on the back.

Jaime felt deprived all of a sudden. He had every intention of spending the rest of the ball with Brienne, Cersei be damned, especially after her cruel tricks. He was sure that she spurred on that group of men; none of them would have had the brain cells to think of such a plan, nor would they have had the courage to do so if it weren’t for the encouragement and persuasion of a certain beautiful and powerful young woman.

**\--- <<<>>>\---**

By the time Brienne turned eighteen, she was taller and bigger than Jaime, and was a force to be reckoned with during their sparring sessions. Tywin had put a stop to the boxing lessons after Brienne’s coming out, citing impropriety in letting a young man and young woman fight each other in what amounted to their underwear. This had not stopped Jaime and Brienne, however. Instead, they did their sparring in the fields a far distance from the manor, and their matches became a little more than boxing, usually ending with one of them losing their temper (mostly Brienne, Jaime thought) and wrestling each other to the ground.

Tyrion was laying on a blanket nearby, reading a particularly fascinating novel and not paying attention to either of them in the slightest. He would be starting Oxford in the fall, following in the footsteps of his brother, though Jaime suspected that Tyrion would do considerably better academically than he did. Jaime had barely made the degree, and owed most of his grades from the dutiful tutelage of a horde of private tutors courtesy of Tywin Lannister.

They had agreed to refrain from face punches, to lessen possible incriminating evidence, but Brienne had gotten a few blows to his gut that nearly made him crumble to the ground. By gods, she was strong as an ox, and was determined to fell him. She was a sweaty mess, her hair escaping her plait and her face a bright red. Her eyes though, were bright and alive. He gave a chuckle and tackled her to the ground, the grass softening their fall. Their boxing gloves were flung off in the commotion.

“Cheater!” Brienne shrieked, as they wrestled to see who would get the upper hand. Her legs were warm and damp with sweat and slippery, but they were strong as she kicked at him and pushed him down repeatedly until his legs and torso were pinned under her, but oh, his hands were still free and he used them to his utmost advantage, poking her sides and tickling her.

“Gods damn it, Jaime! You’re a cheat!” she laughed, and to Jaime’s ears it was beautiful and light and made him laugh as well, but he still managed to flip her over and straddle her, his hands pinning her wrists to the ground. She was giggling and squirming under him and her eyes were so bright and her cheeks beautifully pink and suddenly Jaime was conscious of a stirring in his loins, which did not improve the more she wiggled her hips under his.

Her eyes were so blue, bluer than the sky, and both of them suddenly stopped laughing, as if aware of some strange presence between them. He couldn’t think, but he felt this odd pull toward her. Slowly, he started to lean forward, and she licked her lips and his trousers became disconcertingly tighter and he lowered his face ever slower. Her face held an expression of disbelief, but in her eyes Jaime thought he read desire. He bent down slightly lower, closer and closer to her lips, waiting for a protest that never came.

“Hey, there you all are,” Galladon shouted, running toward their little group, excitement in his long strides.

Brienne stiffened, and with a sudden movement, pushed Jaime over with ease so she could quickly scramble up. Tyrion lifted his head from his book curiously at the commotion.

“What is it, Gal?” Tyrion said, getting up and walking toward the young man, who looked like he was in shock. He mutely stared at them and held out a newspaper.

“Gal?” Brienne asked, brushing the grass from her clothes, her voice filled with concern.

Tyrion reached over and took the newspaper Galladon held and looked at the headline.

“We’re at war.” Tyrion announced, his face grim.

**\--- <<<>>>\---**

“I don’t want you to go,” Cersei pouted, slipping her thin silk nightgown back on, the cream silk shimmering on the curves of her body.

“It’s war. I must.” Jaime was covered in sweat and still panting from their vigorous fucking. He reached for her body, wanting her close as he recovered from his orgasm. As always, she resisted his post-coital embrace. He whined.

She gave him a sharp look. “You got what you wanted. Don’t ask for more,” she admonished, frowning.

“War is one thing. You didn’t have to go enlisting so soon after war was declared, Jaime.”

“Gods, Cersei. Everyone says it will be over in a few months anyway. I’ll be in training for a few weeks at least. I’ll probably never set foot on the Continent.”

Her frown deepened and her face turned pleading. “But I need you by my side. I need you here with me, Jaime.”

Jaime smiled, feeling relaxed and triumphant. “I’ll miss you too, dearest. But it’s my duty. Plus, Gal is going.”

“I don’t suppose that cow is going as well? She could easily disguise herself as a man. No one would know the difference.” Cersei’s smile was thin and mocking.

Jaime huffed. “Gods, what have you got against Brienne? Your hostility toward her is rather tiresome.”

Cersei rolled her eyes. “She’s in love with you, idiot, has been for years.” She laughed uproariously as she saw the shocked look on his face. “Oh, it was just a little crush at first. I don’t believe she’s ever been around anyone as handsome as you, brother. But she absolutely fell head over heels in love with you when you did your little act of chivalry by dancing with her at her coming out ball.”

Jaime shook his head. “That’s not possible. Brienne barely tolerates me.”

Cersei put on her robe and shook her head. “If that’s what you think.”

He grabbed her hand as she passed him on the way to the door. “Stay the night, Cersei,” he whined.

She pulled away from him, a little roughly. “Gods, Jaime. You always get too clingy after sex. Why don’t you hug a pillow or something?”

She left, closing the door quietly behind her. Jaime groaned in frustration, the momentary bliss he had felt quickly leaving him, only to be filled with disappointment and shame.

Jaime shook his head in disbelief, unable to absorb Cersei’s revelation. There was no way that Brienne liked him, let alone _loved_ him. The glares he got from her would kill a normal man by now. He had a catalogue of her looks: disgust, disappointment, exasperation, anger, wariness, resentment, frustration. It made him laugh to be at the receiving end of those looks now. No. She could not love him. Surely not. But what he was sure about was that they were friends. Good friends, ever since she found out about him and Cersei. He trusted her. 

He felt a pain in the bottom of his stomach, as he often did when he pondered his relationship with his twin. In the beginning, he had been sure that she loved him as much as he loved her, but now it seemed like they were just using each other for sex. This summer, he spent more time with Brienne than he did with Cersei, and with Cersei, the sex was always in the middle of night, with either of them hurrying away quickly after. She never kissed him tenderly or allowed him to sleep in her arms. She even stopped bringing him to her social events of late, preferring to go instead with her pack of admiring girlfriends. 

The summer was over. War was declared. The future loomed ahead of him now, overwhelming and dark like an immense wall. Perhaps his future was no future at all. Perhaps he would meet his end in France or Belgium or Italy. Perhaps he would die far away from Casterly, and Cersei would move on, marry some handsome heir and have his children, and never even spare a thought for her long lost lover. Would she ever regret rejecting his embraces as she did now? He burned with satisfaction at the prospect.

It had been an impulsive decision to sign up, but he and Galladon spurred each other on. Tywin was disappointed, to say the least. He demanded Jaime change his mind, but it was obviously too late. His signature was on the form, the form approved, and he would leave this place in a week. He was glad that Tyrion couldn’t join, that Brienne and Cersei would remain safe in England.

**\--- <<<>>>\---**

“I swear, this is the only time I have ever been glad to have been born a dwarf.” Tyrion tilted his head sardonically and smiled. He would be, of course, exempt from service, thank the gods.

Jaime hugged his little brother, managing not to shed any tears.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving me to rot with Cersei,” Tyrion mumbled.

“You’ll be at Oxford, remember? Just don’t let the bastards get you down. You’re loads smarter than them.”

His brother grinned, waggling his eyebrows. “Oh, I’m perfectly aware of that. That’s why I intend to make friends with the largest, toughest, meanest student there.” He paused. “Too bad Brienne isn’t coming to Oxford – she’d fit the bill.”

Jaime gave him a disapproving look.

Tyrion laughed. “I joke, brother! I know how much you adore your sparring partner. She is the best of us, even I know that.”

**\--- <<<>>>\---**

The train slowly pulled away from the station. Jaime and Galladon stuck their heads out the train window, scanning the crowd of crying mothers, fathers, and young siblings that filled the platform. It would have been difficult to find their families if not for the bright yellow head of Brienne that towered over all the women and most of the men. She was a beacon.

His chest swelled when he saw her, that pale face blotchy with tears but her head still held high. The rest of their family – Cersei, Tyrion, their fathers, were nodding or waving rather mournfully, but Brienne just stared at them, her chin quivering in that way that he could hardly miss. He compulsively grabbed the pendant necklace she gave him, a St. Christopher medal, which was supposed to protect him from danger. Neither of them belonged to the faith, yet she had given him and Galladon the charms anyway. Jaime waved. Galladon shouted his goodbyes, and vigorously waved both his arms at the group.

Finally, Brienne waved back, her hand high above all others. She was a bright spot, visible even when the other people rescinded into the grey of the morning.


	3. Three: Convalescence

The morning after he returns, Jaime is pleased to come across the familiar figure of Brienne idly tramping amongst forests and grasses like a wild creature, crouching at rocks, bending down to gather wildflowers. She makes quite a picture, he thinks, her long body clad in a simple white dress, the thin blue scarf around her neck billowing in the wind. The sky behind her is shockingly blue. She is different from the young girl who dressed in loose trousers and boy’s shirts and ran after Galladon and wrestled Jaime in the fields. Much more womanly. No longer a girl, though she is young still, at twenty-two. In spirit, she was likely much older, just like he was, like every young soldier who had served in the war. Sometimes, even at twenty-six, Jaime feels ancient.

She looks up and squints – he is a shadow walking against the sun. She stares and stares, but her mouth drops open and she gives a loud, startled cry and starts to run toward him. He is rooted to the spot, at once terrified and excited. She is a blurry vision of blue and white. And then suddenly – her arms surround him, her body near slams into his, and he thinks that she is as strong and solid as she ever was. 

“Jaime,” she murmurs into his neck, and he can hear the smile in her voice, the relief. 

He stands there stunned for some moments, but he exhales and melts into her body, his arms hugging her, his stump pressed against the curve of her back. She smells like lemon and mint and life. The last time he saw her and held her like this, everything around them was grey and wet and the air stank with blood and pus. He wants to squeeze her tight and does. He inhales deeply. He feels pieces of him shift and join inside himself. He doesn’t know how long they stay in the embrace – it feels long but not nearly long enough to satisfy him. 

“Jaime,” Brienne says, her voice awed, when they finally break apart. “You were missing for so long. Everyone thought you were dead.”

“Did _you_?”

She shakes her head vehemently. “I knew you were still out there. I would have felt it, I thought, if you had died...like I did with Gal.”

 _Galladon_. Jaime had nearly forgotten that he was killed in battle nearly two years ago, shortly after he saw her at the front. Gods, so many young men had died. It was too easy to recall that relaxed boy, his golden, beaming smile. So many men he had known and gotten to know, all gone. Sunk into the mud. He had felt numb when he learned of the news about Gal, and truthfully, he feels numb still.

“I’m sorry – I thought of you when I heard,” he manages to reply. What he says is inadequate, he realizes. “It must have been awful for you and Selwyn.”

She lowers her eyes. A lone tear escapes her long lashes and trails down her cheek. Jaime has the impulse to wipe it away; a small part of him wants to kiss it away. 

“It was a long time ago now.” She touches her necklace – the same St. Christopher necklace she had given to her big brother before he left. Jaime is still wearing his. He touches his too, with his remaining hand. He finds it odd but fitting that they are wearing the same talisman now, under the same protection of whatever force that kept them both alive.

She looks at him with concern, at once taking in his appearance. “Jaime, are you ill? You look –”

“I know – like a half a corpse. But surprise, I also have half the number of hands.” He lifts up his stump for her to behold. It is a bloody ugly sight, what’s left of his arm ending at the wrist, with its raised pink scars and torn flesh that had been clumsily sewn together on the battlefield. He waits for her to flinch, to see Cersei’s same revulsion echoed on her face.

“Oh, Jaime,” she breathes, looking truly sorry to see his lack of hand. Her eyes are glistening. Then she does something that astonishes him: she lifts up his stump and moves it to her face and kisses it, ever so gently. His breath leaves him and he feels himself start to tremble.

He must have made a sound – a moan, or a groan – for she blushes fiercely and slowly lowers his stump from her lips. “I’m sorry – I forgot myself.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s fine, it didn’t hurt when you touched it. It’s just no one has ever touched it like that or kissed it. I was just surprised that it didn’t disgust you.”

She gives him an odd look. “Why would it disgust me? You lost your hand in the war. But you’re still you, and it’s a part of you.”

“Cersei–”

She purses her lips, looking like a stern schoolmarm. “She was disgusted by it?”

He sighs, suddenly exhausted. “She couldn’t even look at it. She could barely look at me.” He gestured to his clothes, which hung much too loosely on him. “Who can blame her? I’m not the man I once was. And one handed now. Useless.”

All of a sudden, he feels lightheaded, as he remembers Cersei’s recoil and look of horror, his father’s stern disappointment at not getting his heir back whole. The blame they both had for him because he chose to enlist. He regrets that Tyrion is away in Oxford, because would have liked to have seen the face of someone in his family who was actually happy to see him return home. That would have been novel, rather tripping, he thinks wryly.

“Jaime, are you all right?” She grabs a hold of his arm and swings her other arm around his waist to steady him. His legs feel weak and nearly buckle under him. Unexpectedly, the world is spinning.

“You look like you’re going to collapse any second. You must come in and rest. Stay for a while. Can you walk?”

He nods, looking at her gratefully. She looks like an angel in her white dress, he thinks. His angel of mercy. He thinks she had never looked so pretty.

“Brienne,” he says, his left hand grasping hers tightly. “You saved my life once. Do you think you could do it again?”

**\--- <<<>>>\---**

They arrange for him to convalesce at the Tarth residence for a few weeks. Having been a volunteer nurse, Brienne was deemed the most appropriate person to monitor Jaime’s recovery. Tywin insists on paying her, despite her repeated protests. Selwyn doesn’t mind – in fact, he encourages this turn of events, as this was apparently the first time since Brienne’s return from war that he had seen her so alive and motivated. Galladon’s loss had taken a toll on both of them, but on her most of all. She had been listless and silent since coming back from the front.

The truth is, Casterly is the last place Jaime wants to be. Clearly, neither Cersei nor his father want him back in the house, an ugly blight amongst the beautiful and the living. He is a one-handed embarrassment, the physical embodiment of failure and disappointment. Besides, Cersei is much too busy with wedding preparations, the event which was scheduled in a mere two months’ time. Since his return, being around his sister hurts Jaime even more than the pains in his arm. She has turned her back to him completely, and recoils every time her eyes alight on his stump. He understands, even without words, that their relationship is over. He supposes that once he ceased to look like Cersei, he stopped being her other half in her eyes. He certainly stopped being useful to her. It makes sense and is perhaps logical, but that doesn’t mean that it hurts any less.

Brienne places him in the room next to hers, which he knows had been Galladon’s old room. There is no trace of him now – the bedroom is spare, devoid of the young man’s personal belongings. But the bed is large and comfortable, and out the window there is a view of the cliffs and beyond that, the sea. He had missed the lullaby of the sea when he was fighting, and the faint sounds of the waves are comforting to him now that he hears them again.

Jaime is sure he is lousy company, but it seems neither Selwyn nor Brienne expect much of him in terms of entertainment. Military officials send him a medal of some sort for bravery in the war, for saving that boy Podrick’s life. While he is glad to hear that young Pod lived, he can’t bear to set his eyes on the thing, and so he puts it away in a drawer somewhere out of the way. He wonders if it is possible to forget the whole war, even with the constant reminder of his ugly stump. Everything is loss and grief, death and Cersei. He supposes he’s lucky that the horrors of battle made him more resilient to the immediate heartbreak of losing his lover. He feels as if he is enclosed in glass – he sees, but doesn’t touch; he feels, but from only a far distance.

A kind of darkness descends a few days after his return, like a delayed infection of the mind. He spends whole days staring out of windows, looking out to the stormy seas. He listens to the waves battering against the cliffs, sometimes roaring, sometimes gentle and lapping. There is a strange blankness in his thoughts, and he can’t bear to even read. Even talking, his real great pastime, escapes him now. Time slips and slides. Brienne comes to get him for meals, and he is led by the arm to the dining table, where he barely is able to eat. Food tastes like ashes in his mouth. He knocks the wine glass over a few times with his hideous stump, forgetting that he’s lost his hand. Clumsy fool. He stares at the red liquid slowly spread over the white cloth of the table, and it looks too much like blood. He gasps and turns desperately away, suddenly unable to breathe. His mind is a ruin, barren as the war-torn fields and trenches.

He vaguely registers the looks Selwyn exchanges with Brienne, full of concern. He concentrates with effort and hears that Selwyn will be going away to Tarth on business matters for a fortnight, and he wonders if Brienne would be alright being alone with Jaime, and should he call Mr. Goodwin to be around (Mr. Goodwin, it seems, has become a dear family friend over the years, not just a teaching pugilist). Jaime closes his eyes, remembering the days of their youth where they would laze in the grass. The pond. Racing up sandy dunes. Throwing rocks into the sea. When Gal was still alive, and half his graduating Oxford class wasn't dead and moldering under the mud in France. It’s much easier to drift just so, instead of trying to concentrate and be in the world.

“Jaime.” Brienne’s voice breaks into his fog. She looks at him with a furrowed brow.

“You must eat.”

He looks at the soup before him, surprised at its sudden appearance. The wine is white instead of red now, and he wonders when they had made that change. Selwyn is gone from the table.

“Jaime,” she repeats, “Please, for me...just eat. You’re withering away.” She looks distraught and he feels a burst of shame. Poor wench, having to take care of the likes of him.

He lifts his right arm but remembers in time that his hand is just a stump now. Awkwardly, he spoons the soup into his mouth with his left hand. The soup tastes like warm nothing, but goes easily enough down his throat.

Jaime looks around, puzzled. “Where did Selwyn go?”

Brienne looks at him oddly. “Father’s gone to Tarth and Storm’s End. He’s been gone for a couple of days now.”

Jaime shakes his head, confused. His mind is a muddle. “I could have sworn I just heard him tell you about his trip not five minutes ago.”

Brienne’s eyes are wide and confused and very, very blue.

Time fractures, drifts away and back again. Over and over, the glass of time falls and breaks into pieces before him. The next thing he knows, he’s sitting in the bathtub, the water almost too warm. But he feels good, his body relaxed for once. He is astonished when he turns his head to see Brienne, her grey blouse liberally splashed with water, sleeves rolled up, washcloth in hand. She is crouched next to him next to the tub and he is completely naked. 

He uncharacteristically blushes, and moves to cover his cock from her with his remaining hand. 

She startles and looks at him carefully in the eye. 

“I’m naked, wench! What are you doing here with me?”

“Wench?” She smiles crookedly, then her face turns contemplative as she examines his face, her eyes searching, almost disbelieving. She bites her lip. “You’re _back_ , Jaime. Where do you go, I wonder, when you go away?”

Jaime frowns. The last thing he remembers is eating soup at the dining table with Brienne. Yet a part of him feels like he’s been here before. He shakes his head. “I don’t know where I go. I suppose I just disappear.” He turns to her. He feels utterly pathetic. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugs, and rubs the soapy cloth on his back and he leans forward. She’s gentle. Much gentler than Cersei ever was. There is a familiarity in the way that she touches him. It’s strange.

“I suppose this isn’t the first time you’ve bathed me.”

“Indeed not,” she says matter-of-factly. “But it’s the first time you’ve come to yourself while I’ve done it.”

Her hands are warm and slippery and her touch makes Jaime think indecent thoughts, especially when he looks at her pink cheeks and the sheen of perspiration gathering at the top of her lip and the steam shimmering on her neck. He feels his cock stir under the water. I’ve been too long without Cersei, he automatically thinks. He has never thought of a woman other than Cersei in this way ever. He is exceedingly puzzled.

“I - I can take over from here, wench.” He is embarrassed at the turn his thoughts take, how conscious he is now of her warm, wet fingers, the slide of the cloth on his chest, her hand slowly moving down his prominent ribs and over the ridges of his stomach. It can’t be helped, he can feel his cock lengthening and getting thicker with every perverse turn of thought.

Brienne nods, her cheeks a brilliant red. She closes the door and Jaime relaxes and gives an exhale of relief. He’s surprised at the reaction of his body – he hadn’t felt aroused in ages and the fact that it was in response to Brienne discomfited him. She was helping him after all, being paid to be his nurse, and here he was, unable to imagine anything else but the flush on her skin, the dampness of her blouse which outlined the gentle swells of her barely-there breasts. He imagines her continuing to wash him, her hands soapy and warm, moving further down his stomach and finding the surprise of his hard cock. His hands grasp his shaft as he imagines what Brienne would do with her large hands and long fingers, how she would hold him tight and move up and down, at first slowly, but then faster, as his moans start to drive her wild. He imagines her eyes, wide and blue, her plump lips lowering on the deep pink knob of his cock, and he comes with a violent jerk, hard and groaning, as he shoots his seed into the soapy water.

**\--- <<<>>>\---**

Fire and blood and rain. He’s stuck in the mud and his foot is sinking, and the Germans are shooting their machine guns at them, and he sees boy after boy fall; the eerie whistle of shells dropping all around him, and not five feet away, he sees Pod being blown up right in front of him, Galladon drowning in the yellow foam of his lungs from mustard gas. Jaime can’t move and the sharp barb wire is twisting around his body, cutting into his flesh, and a soldier in a gas mask is hacking at his hand, hacking and kicking and gods, there’s so much pain…. He screams and screams.

“Jaime! Jaime!” He feels his body being shaken, but he doesn’t know where he is. For a moment he thinks he’s back in the makeshift hospital after the first time he was wounded. Brienne is there. He still has hope, the hope of her blue eyes. He is drenched in sweat, struggling to breathe.

Warm hands are stroking his hair now, a low voice in his ear, encouraging him to take slow, deep breaths. _Gentle_.

“Jaime,” her voice calls out.

He opens his eyes, and sees Brienne’s pale, worried face above him. The night is beginning to brighten into morning.

“Brienne? Where am I?”

“You’re home, in your bed. With me. Come back. You were dreaming.”

“Brienne – it was the war again, and so many dying….” His heart was still pounding.

“I know.” He feels her settle next to him now, on the bed, above the covers. “I have similar dreams. Men dying, bleeding, and I can’t save them.”

He feels her warmth, the strength of her. Her hands touching his shoulder and head feel suddenly calming. “Will you stay? For a bit, at least?” At this moment, he doesn’t give a damn about propriety. 

She hesitates, but nods. He pulls aside the covers so she can get in. Her hair is in a flat braid, loose strands falling into her face. Her nightgown is very long and white and covers her arms and goes up to her neck.

“Can I hold you?” Brienne’s voice calls out like a beautiful bell. The idea strikes him with its rightness.

“Please, Brienne. Please.” Her arms surround him as she settles behind him. He can feel the little buds of her breasts on his back, his ass nestled at her hip. Jaime thinks: no one has ever embraced him like this before. No one has ever touched him without him needing to beg for their touch. This is cozy, he thinks, and a warmth suffuses his blood. The nightmare recedes and becomes just a distant thing, a black pebble, a mere speck of dirt, easy to flick away in the receding darkness. Brienne’s breathing is lovely and regular and warm on his neck. He closes his eyes and drifts into a peaceful sleep. 

**\--- <<<>>>\---**

Somehow, sleeping with Brienne’s arms around him helps to keep him anchored in the present. Time becomes more manageable, and he doesn’t slip away as often. He is thankful that Selwyn is away from Tarth for the fortnight – even the good natured giant of a man would not tolerate his only daughter in a man’s bed, no matter how chaste the situation. Of course, his next problem when they sleep in the same bed is that he often wakes to an aching, hard cock; Brienne’s hands end up on his chest or his hips are nestled against her, his hardness poking rudely against her backside. Brienne, bless her, flushes but ignores the very evident nature of his ardor.

“It’s nothing personal,” he says to her once, matter-of-factly, trying desperately to be glib. “Men sometimes wake up like this.”

She stares at him as if he were speaking Ancient Greek, and even looks a little wounded. Had she _wanted_ it to be personal? He is confused. It does not help that when he takes himself in hand – a far too often occurrence now than had ever been the case – he invariably ends up thinking not of Cersei, but Brienne and her thick thighs, those plush lips, her long hands. Her eyes. He always comes quickly and hard.

She drags him outside for little walks. One day they stroll slowly to Casterly; Jaime supposes it was his idea to visit his family. For his sister’s sake, he had pinned his right sleeve to neatly cover his stump. He thinks of Cersei and wonders if she would still be disgusted at the sight of him. The time with the Tarths had done him good. He was eating again and was gaining weight. Brienne had shaved his face earlier that morning, and in the looking-glass he fancied himself looking almost as handsome as he did before the war, though nothing could erase the shadows behind his eyes.

Tywin immediately ushers Brienne away to his office to discuss his progress, Jaime guesses. He finds himself at the threshold of Cersei’s door. After some hesitation, he knocks.

“Come in,” his sister’s disinterested voice calls out.

“Jaime,” she says when she sees him. He spots greed in her green eyes as she scours his face, his shining, golden hair, his body. Her look of possessiveness reminds him so much of the old days that his heart aches fully. Yet her eyes turn hard when she spots the empty space where his hand should have been.

For a change, he waits for her to come to him. Her smile is at once seductive but rings a disjointed false note. He wonders if that was something that was always there. It could not be denied that she is still heartbreakingly lovely, her long hair half pinned, blond curls tumbling down her back. Her dress is green to match her vibrant emerald eyes and it clings to the curves of her lithe body.

She kisses him and firmly presses her round breasts against his chest. “You look well, brother. So much better than before.”

He can’t bring himself to touch her, though he is already aware that his cock is half hard. Cersei looks down, noticing, and smirks.

“You haven’t visited. I’m just next door,” he complains. He feels peevish, and is confused with the leftover lust simmering in his veins.

She frowns. “I’ve been busy with the wedding preparations, Jaime.” She touches his hair softly, traces his cheeks and jaw with her thin fingers. “Besides, your cow writes to father constant updates about your health. Gods, she is tedious.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but she kisses him again, this time snaking her tongue into his mouth. He moans, and finally reaches for her, drawing her body tight against his, his arms around her, his stump at the small of her back, hips pressing.

Cersei suddenly gasps, and recoils from the touch of his stump, staring at it, even though it is covered. She looks ill and pale. Jaime’s cock immediately wilts at the sight of her horrified face. She steps back from him and quickly smooths her face into a false smile.

“Brother, I would not tax you. You’re still recovering.” She can barely look at him in the face, yet seems strangely unable to take her eyes from his missing hand.

Jaime knows now, knows with even more conviction that whatever they once had is over. It’s not just that she is disgusted by him, but it seems like a curtain has been drawn from his eyes. He sees her clearly – yes, she is very beautiful still and would always be, but there is no heart to her. He wonders if she ever loved him or if she just loved him as an extension of herself. He doubts if she is even capable of love, and he suddenly feels sorry for her. But that does not mean he isn’t angry with her.

“You are planning on doing something with that…thing, are you not? For the wedding?” Her voice is edged with contempt and worry.

“What do you think I should do, sweet sister? Grow a new hand, perhaps?” He gives her a cutting look. He feels his phantom hand form into a tight fist, sending a sharp stabbing pain along his arm. He winces.

She glares at him, her red mouth twisted.

“Not to worry, dearest sister. I don’t plan on marring your wedding day with this monstrosity of a stump. Father has spent considerable sums making sure I appear to have a hand at least in the wedding portraits.”

Cersei does not even bother to disguise her relief.

“Lovely to visit with you, Cersei. It all makes it worthwhile to know that my sacrifice on the front has been worth it…for all this.” He gestures to the room with his one whole hand and makes an exaggerated bow in front of her as he turns for the door.

“The war has made you bitter as well as a cripple, brother,” Cersei calls out icily, as he slams the door closed behind him.

**\--- <<<>>>\---**

“It has healed well,” Dr. Jon Snow remarks, examining Jaime’s stump carefully, “Though not the most elegant stitching job, I must say.” Jaime could hardly look at the thing, with its red and scarred crags and edges.

“Do you feel it sometimes? The missing hand?”

Jaime stares at the somber looking doctor, dark tangle of curls falling across his forehead. Apparently this Dr. Snow was purported to be the best in the field of orthopaedics. Yet to Jaime, he looks far too young to be a doctor, let alone a specialist. Did he start medical school when he was a baby?

He sighed. “I do. It hurts sometimes. Sometimes it feels like I’m whole again, and suffice it to say that it is a profound disappointment when I look down at the damned thing not to find my hand, but this ugly stump instead.”

Dr. Snow frowns at Jaime’s cursing, and gives a brief look at Brienne, who is sitting near the window with an open book on her lap, pretending she isn’t listening to their every word. The wench had been annoyingly solicitous during the train journey to London, staring at him with her big blue eyes with too much concern.

“Oh, don’t mind her. Miss Tarth has heard all my curse words. Repeatedly.”

Brienne tries to stifle a smile but fails. A part of Jaime warms at the sight, to have delighted her in this small way. Gods, he owed her a great deal.

Dr. Snow looks at them, amused. Jaime notices that the good doctor is limping a little, has a cane in hand. Poor sod. Probably got a bullet in the leg in the war.

The man takes out his measuring tape and notebook, and spends an inordinate amount of time measuring Jaime’s stump, touching the skin and figuring out where his sensitive spots are. Later, he creates a plaster cast of his stump. Jaime is a little impressed by the thoroughness of the doctor, an infant though he may be.

Eventually, Dr. Snow gestures for Brienne to sit beside Jaime. He starts opening drawers like a madman, eagerly bringing models of fake hands – some plain and carved wood, some painted to look like skin, some covered with a thin layer of rubber that looks particularly flesh-like. He also brings out metal hooks of various shapes. There is even a glittering golden hand in the selection. Jaime was rather tempted to pick that one, just to shock his relatives. It would go rather well his hair, he secretly thinks.

“I had no idea there was so much variety in replacement hands,” Jaime muses, somewhat unenthusiastically. Brienne gazes at the hands, absolutely fascinated.

The doctor chuckles. “This is the latest in prosthetics. I worked with a brilliant sculptor in Paris who specialized in making these – she is very sought after, and as you expect, after the war, she is busier than ever.”

Brienne nods thoughtfully. “There were a great number of amputees I cared for in the war. It was terribly difficult to see their pain.”

The doctor looks at her sympathetically. “Ah, so you understand, Miss Tarth. Many people do not comprehend the extent of the injury, both physically, and dare I say emotionally. We are also seeing so many cases of shellshock – soldiers with nothing physically wrong with them, though presenting with odd physical ailments, nonetheless.” The young doctor sighs, and becomes silent for a moment.

He then looks at Jaime. “Are you looking for form or function, Captain Lannister? Most working folk prefer the metal hooks because it’s so useful.”

Jaime looks at the options laid out before him on the table and frowns. “I’m under orders to make myself look as normal as possible. In other words, I must pretend that I haven’t had my hand blasted off.”

Dr. Snow holds out a hand that seems particularly life like – it looks to be encased in thin rubber. “This one is made of hollow steel, but the middle layer is cork and the outer layer is a washable, durable rubber, tinted to exactly match your skin. It feels and looks remarkably life-like.” He offers the hand to both of them to touch.

Out of the selection, Jaime supposes it is the least repellent of them all. He imagines most people would hardly be able to tell that this wasn’t a real hand from a distance, until they notice its odd immobility. In truth, he feels indifferent to the choice before him, as if the hand is for another person altogether.

“Yes. This one, I suppose. It’s for my sister’s wedding, you see. She is quite particular about pretending my injury doesn’t exist so as not to ruin the photographs on her special day.”

Dr. Snow sighs. “Yes, that seems to be the norm. War’s over, let’s move on, seems to be the prevailing attitude.”

He looks down at his notebook and furrows his brow. “You are requesting that this get done in a month? It’s near to impossible in such a short time, Captain Lannister.”

Jaime raises his eyebrow. “Isn’t that why we are paying you nearly double?”

The doctor clears his throat. “Ah. Of course.” An uncomfortable silence lingers in the room. Brienne looks round, a little desperately, evidently embarrassed by Jaime’s rudeness.

“Tell me, Dr. Snow, how on earth did you get into this field? I’m curious.”

The doctor turns his bright grey eyes to Brienne, smiling at her softly. “The hard way, I think.” He lifts up the fabric of his pant to reveal a wooden leg. He playfully knocks on it, making a hollow sound. “I lost my leg in the first year of the war, and I was sent to this studio in Paris and had my new leg put on. I stayed on to learn the trade, and brought these skills back to England.”

“That’s very noble of you.” Brienne gives the doctor an admiring look. Jaime feels a sliver of irritation run up his spine.

Jaime coughs.

Dr. Snow squints and writes down notes in his book. “In order to meet your deadline, I shall see to the work and deliver the prosthetic myself,” he says confidently, moving his cane to his side. He reaches into his desk and pulls out a card and, after a beat, hands it to Brienne.

“I believe you already have my contact information, Captain. But here is my card, Miss Tarth. Please feel free to contact me should you have any questions at all.”

Jaime stops himself from rolling his eyes. “Thank you, dear doctor. I suppose I will see you in about three weeks?” The doctor nods. 

The next thing he knows, Brienne is offering to let Dr. Snow stay at her house when he arrives in town to deliver the hand, as hotels in Lannisport would surely be at full capacity because of the wedding. Jaime is too flabbergasted to even let out a word of protest. He must talk to the wench about being too trusting to virtual strangers. 

“Come, Miss Tarth, London awaits our pleasure.” He attempts to sound light and carefree, but Jaime cannot quite conceal the irritation in his voice.

**\--- <<<>>>\---**

Jaime is frightfully glad he missed the preparations for Cersei’s wedding entirely. Looking at how the staff had transformed the stolid brick monster of a manor to something resembling a magical garden castle, he just knows that everyone would have had to endure weeks of a hysterical and angry Cersei screeching at everyone, from the scullery maid to the housekeeper. Nevertheless, the whole thing comes off rather nice looking, he thinks, as he glances around appreciatively. Flowers and shining crystal and silk flounces. Something out of a girl’s fairy tale, but that was Cersei for you, always searching for her prince. A prince who was clearly not Jaime, and had never really been.

Cersei is resplendent in her white gown of satin, pearls, and intricate Irish lace. Her eyes shine with excitement at being the focus of attention. She is plastered to Robert’s side, the giant building of a man who had somehow escaped serving in the war. Something about him being needed in weapons manufacturing; apparently he had gotten even more wealthy during the war. Jaime sneers at the couple from his vantage point near the bar. Vanity, money and cowardice, he thinks bitterly – all united at last.

He can’t help but feel that this is the end of things. Of his old life perhaps. Definitely the death knell of his infatuation and lust for his sister. It puzzles him now, how he had been so under her thrall. Was he so shallow as to be solely bewitched by beauty? Had Cersei ever given him happiness beyond the physical pleasure of their secret trysts? He remembers when they were children, how they had clung to each other when they were young and lonely. They had touched innocently – then not so innocently. He thought he had loved her with a pure brother’s love. Surely he had loved her then? Perhaps it was when they succumbed to lust that things had twisted between them. Cersei was always pushing and pulling and he just went along with her whims. She was the wind and he was the mere grass that knelt and bent to her desires.

Still, her vows to that thick lump of a man are painful to witness. He feels all the muscles of his body tense, readying himself for pain. Even now, after the vows are done, he feels wounded and restless, as if there is a growing hole the size of a fist in his chest. 

“How long do you think until they annoy each other to death?” Tyrion muses, coming up to Jaime, his mismatched eyes glimmering with amusement. His brother looks terribly dapper in his very expensive tuxedo made of flocked black velvet.

“Tyrion, stop. I’m not in the mood.”

Jaime clutches the drink in his hand and downs it in one go.

“Easy there, brother. I’m the one person in the family who normally gets drunk at these things.” He squints at Jaime, examining him carefully. “Gods, I hope you’re not heartbroken over this. You’re much better off. Without _her_.” He looks around to make sure no one is listening. “Especially since what you two had...was never good. Not to mention that Cersei is evil and hateful.”

“Tyrion.” Jaime growls. He had been delighted that Tyrion had come home for the summer from Oxford after deciding to pursue an advanced degree, but right now, a part of him wants to strangle his little brother. He grabs another whisky from the bar.

“I see you are determined to drink yourself into oblivion tonight. I shall find Brienne. Perhaps she’ll be glad to see me and commiserate with me in this nest of insufferable Lannisters and Baratheons.”

Brienne. He spots her standing awkwardly with her back to the wall, looking like a stiff oak tree. During the ceremony, she had looked at him so kindly and with so much pity that he could not even bear to glance in her direction. Sometimes, her gaze pierces him too keenly, and the effect on him is acute. She looks handsome tonight – no, even more than that – she looks absolutely lovely. In London, he had dragged her to a designer after they had visited Dr. Snow; they made her stand absolutely still in the middle of their salon while dressmakers measured and pinned fabric around her. The result was a deep blue dress that brought out her eyes, cut simply but in a clever way that enhanced her subtle curves. The dress is long enough, for a change, and suits her very well.

A Tyrell daughter first tries to talk to him but he ignores her, opting instead to devote his full attention to his drink. Then a Martell daughter tries, to even less successful results. He rattles the ice in his crystal tumbler, and the bartender refills it with rich amber liquid. He delights in that stinging burn down his gullet.

He is dedicated to getting as drunk as possible tonight, he declares to himself. Soon enough, the room starts to pleasantly tilt. The small orchestra seems to add to his newly jubilant mood, as they play little hopping waltzes and swooping, romantic music. The knot inside him starts to unravel. Cersei and Robert are making ridiculous lustful eyes at each other and it seems to Jaime and they are completely absurd. Marriage is absurd. Everything is absurd, especially life.

In a dim corner, Tyrion is flirting with the little Tyrell daughter Jaime had earlier dismissed. Selwyn is dancing happily with Lady Olenna, that ancient bat with her sly eyes and insinuations. Brienne is talking, her face serious, with Robert’s middle brother Stannis and his daughter Shireen. It was hard to believe that Stannis, with his thin, pinched face, was the brother of the florid, red-faced, booming-voiced groom. Dr. Jon Snow, whom Cersei had invited at the spur of the moment after seeing his impressive work in disguising Jaime’s deformity, is standing next to the buffet table, cane in hand, looking polite but subdued, his eyes suspiciously following Brienne. The young doctor was wearing a ridiculous blue tie, one that seemed to match the colour of Brienne’s eyes. Jaime growled. Had he the energy, he would have gone up to the good doctor and tell him to keep his eyes to himself. His father, from a position by the window, regards the whole proceedings with a sharp, satisfied air, smug with the marriage’s effects on Lannister coffers and reputation.

He sighs. Drinks his whisky. He looks at his new hand and wants to laugh. At first glance it certainly looks life-like; Jaime can hold a wine glass with it but little else. The hand seems false and strange and makes his phantom pains a little bit worse. Still, it makes people forget that he’d been to war and had his bloody hand blasted off. It provides him a veneer of normalcy at least.

The party is dull and insipid, despite the flowing alcohol, the live orchestra, the glittering bejeweled ladies, the towers of food, tall vases of flowers, and the tinkling chandeliers. Jaime realizes after looking around that the guests are mostly made of women and older men. Even in the upper class families, death had made itself known amongst his generation. Many of their young men were dead and decomposing across the Channel, and the ones that returned were ghastly, haunted versions of their previous selves, like his new fake hand. Like him. No one really feels like dancing, it seems, as he observes the empty ballroom.

By the end of the night, Jaime finds himself slumped in a leather armchair near the bar. The room is rotating pleasantly. He hears a pretty tune in his head.

“Should we take him upstairs to his room?” Brienne’s voice was clear as a chime; it had the effect of rousing Jaime from his stupor.

“In all honesty, I don’t think he would appreciate being under the same roof as Cersei and Robert on their wedding night,” Tyrion wryly replied.

“But...he’s very drunk. Can he even walk?”

“It’s five minutes across the field to your house.”

“Are _you_ going to carry him?” Brienne sounds absolutely annoyed. Jaime laughs.

He shakes his head and grins wider, looking adoringly first at Tyrion, then Brienne. 

“Angel! Wench,” he calls out to Brienne, reaching out for her with his left hand and missing her entirely. He thinks she looks like a goddess with stars for eyes. She gives him a deathly glare. No, now her eyes are like bright lamps. Interrogation lamps. 

Tyrion snorts.

“Take me home, angel, away from this cursed rock. I’m tired of this tedious affair.” The blue dress really does complement her eyes, he thinks. They are astonishing, even if they are glaring at him.

He staggers to standing, and he feels his legs buckle from under him. Brienne lets out an imperceptible sigh. Suddenly Dr. Snow is there, and he and Brienne are holding him up between them as they make their way home. Jaime wonders how the good doctor can walk so well with his wooden leg and just a cane. 

“Wench, have you ever been in love?” His voice is a little slurred, but there is little he can do about it.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Brienne grumbles, skewering him with those bright blue eyes. She looks like she wants to pummel him. He grins.

The grass feels lovely underneath his feet. He longs to drop down on it and close his eyes. A soft nest for all his troubles.

“Oh no you don’t,” Brienne warns and jerks him up by the shoulder, rather roughly.

“He really is drunk, isn’t he,” Dr. Snow murmurs.

“He has been drinking literally all evening.” The angel says dryly.

“Dr. Snow! Have you been in love? Do you have a sweetheart missing you in London, hmmm?”

A pause. “Up north. There’s someone.” Dr. Snow is vague and embarrassed, glancing surreptitiously at the wench.

Jaime grins, delighted. “Good, good. There is nothing greater than love, I must tell you. If you find a love, good doctor, you must hold on to her.”

The doctor ignores him, and smiles conspiratorially at Brienne. Yet Jaime is much too drunk to care. The night is much to glorious and the grass too soft to have any cares.

When Brienne dumps him into his bed, he is still singing the praises of love. Brienne ignores him, and proceeds to efficiently take off his jacket and shoes and bow-tie, leaving him in his shirt and pants. She gingerly unstraps his fake hand. She is much too gentle. It is heartbreaking.

He looks at his lonely bed and sighs, suddenly overcome with melancholy.

“Do you think she loves him?” His voice even to him sounds small.

She pauses in the midst of pulling aside the covers. She gives him a kind, almost pitying look. He can’t bear it. His heart suddenly feels like it’s been battered and bruised. He wants to weep. The moon outside his window looks like it’s been crying. The ocean sounds like it’s mourning.

“I don’t know, Jaime.” There is hesitation in her face, and her voice is comfortingly low. “I don’t know if it’s my business to say. But. She wasn’t good for you. You deserve someone who loves you better. You will find her someday, I’m sure.”

He clutches her hand and he hears her draw in a breath, but he pulls her down so she is sitting on the bed next to him. “This war. It took everything away from us. Everything in my life has been wrenched away: Cersei, my hand, Gal…” He looks at her sad, concerned face, and wonders how he ever thought she had ever been ugly. “Brienne. I wouldn’t have survived without you. What would I have done without you in my life?” He presses her hand in his and brings them to her lips.

She has a pained, strained look on her face. Her cheeks are a deep pink. “It’s what anyone would have done for a friend, Jaime.” She pats his shoulder awkwardly. “Lie down. Sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

He does as he’s told, his head on the pillow and his body stretched out. She carefully pulls the covers over him, and touches his cheek. He leans into her touch.

“Won’t you stay with me tonight, Brienne? I sleep better with you here.” They hadn’t shared the same bed since the beginning, when he was in his daze and her father was out of town for a fortnight.

She shakes her head slowly. “I think not, Jaime. It wouldn’t be proper.” She looks at him carefully. “Besides, you’re fine. You don’t need me much anymore.”

He is about to protest but she gives him a light kiss on the cheek, which shuts him up. Her lips feel warm, and the feeling of it lingers, even after she’s closed the door to his room. He closes his eyes, trying to hold on to that sensation, before he drifts to sleep.


	4. Four: Summer

Everything seems to happen at once. Because Jaime is considered fully recovered, he returns to Casterly. At least he gets spared the worst of it, since Cersei has moved to London with Robert; he considers himself lucky because he doesn’t have to be confronted with the constant apparition of their sin and be reminded of his sister’s disgust and rejection of him. If it weren’t for Tyrion being on his summer break, the house would have been much lonelier, with only him and Tywin rattling around the immense mansion. The nightmares still come often enough, though they’re not as bad as they were two months ago; when he wakes up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and his heart pounding, he remembers calm blue eyes and his breathing settles and he eventually drops back to sleep.

He misses Brienne. There was no skirting it. He misses her constant presence, her barely controlled annoyance at him when he’s prattling on, her gentleness with him when he’s feeling particularly frustrated. Of course, he'd wanted to stay on longer, and wouldn’t have minded staying there permanently even, but a part of him also feels guilty about monopolizing her life for well over two months. It wasn’t fair – she was still mourning Galladon, and he knows full well he has no right to take over her life.

Not one to wallow, Brienne was now training as a nurse at Lannisport hospital, a formality as far as he was concerned because of her years of wartime experience. Jaime glimpses her cycling down early in the morning and coming back exhausted up the hill at night. He tries not to wait up to see her red-faced form struggling up the hill, but he can’t help but feel reassured when he does spot her bright head coming up the road. Lately, she has even taken to learning how to drive in Selwyn’s motor car. She was truly, magnificently modern.

“You miss her,” Tyrion astutely observes while they are in the library. For his summer project, his brother has taken to overseeing Jaime’s efforts in relearning how to write with his left hand, and is an uncommonly vicious taskmaster. He does need the help, Jaime admits to himself, as his handwriting looks like the scrawl of an uncoordinated eight-year-old.

“Who?” Asks Jaime, feigning ignorance.

“Brienne, you dolt. I was not going to ask about our sister.”

“I miss everyone.” This is true. He misses Galladon, and yes, even Cersei, who hadn’t even bothered to write a single word to him since she married. Just as well, Jaime thinks, as his penmanship was sure to have disgusted his sweet sister from the looks of it. It barely needed to be said that he misses Brienne. Terribly.

“Have you thought about her? Brienne?” Tyrion’s black and green eyes probe at him, trying to read something in his expression.

“In what way?” Jaime stubbornly keeps his face blank.

Tyrion looks at him as if he’s an idiot and huffs. “She’s not going to wait around until you come to your senses, Jaime.”

“Do you think she’s waiting?” Jaime is surprised to feel his heart beating a little more prominently in his chest.

“I don’t know. The way she looks at you sometimes. It’s _interesting_.”

He gives his brother a bemused frown. “I think she thinks I’m an idiot.”

Tyrion barks out a laugh. “You _are_ an idiot. But she likes you. _More_ than likes you.”

Jaime huffs. “Cersei told me once that Brienne was in love with me. Ridiculous thought. Why would she be? Why would anyone? I’m crippled and useless and not to mention a sister fucker.”

Tyrion cocks his eyebrow. “Oh. This is getting more and more interesting. Cersei seems to have seen what both of you are too willfully blind to see. How fascinating and darkly ironic that she turns out to be the most perceptive of the three of you in this regard.”

He shakes his head, bemused. “Brienne’s too good for me. She deserves someone...better, someone who’s _good_ ….”

“And hasn’t fucked his sister? Fair point. Sleeping with one’s sister is definitely a black mark on you, Jaime.” His brother cleared his throat. “Still, time waits for no man, as they say. I don’t believe our dearest girl will remain a spinster for long, despite her unfortunate looks.”

Jaime feels a flash of anger and glares at his brother. “Her looks are not _unfortunate_. They’ve rather grown on me. Those eyes.”

“And those legs. I do wonder what they’re like under those long skirts of hers. I imagine she has immense, creamy thighs one can get lost in.” Tyrion says almost dreamily, raising an eyebrow pointedly in his direction, as if trying to provoke him.

Jaime feels disgust at his brother and makes a face. “You’re utterly vulgar. She deserves better than to be spoken of in that way.”

His brother snorts. “I’m honest, unlike you. Anyway, you’re the one already thinking those thoughts.” 

Tyrion pulls his paper over to him and frowns at the scribbled mess that Jaime has written. “Again.”

He smiles, crooked and roguish, and _annoying_. “Brother dearest, word of advice: you need to make sure you’ve moved on from our sister before you can fall into the blue oceans of Brienne’s eyes.”

**\--- <<<>>>\---**

During Brienne’s days off, Jaime finds himself inexplicably drawn to the Tarth house. She seems pleased to see him every time he appears and smiles shyly at him in greeting. Things aren’t the same as before the war of course, but how could anything be? Something had been torn away from them during the war years: whether it was hope, faith, or innocence, he does not fully know. An odd formalness lies between them. They haven’t sparred since he returned, and he is crestfallen when he suddenly remembers that he is now a one-handed cripple who can’t spar with her even if he wanted to. Still, being around Brienne is the only thing that makes him feel remotely close to normal. He doesn’t even feel like he needs to wear his fake hand when he’s around her. There is no hiding or pretending with her, and she, out of all the people around him, actually understands some of what he went through.

The day is scorching and he is already sweating from the five-minute walk to the Tarth house. When the servant lets him into the drawing room, he finds Brienne reading a letter. She starts a little and goes pink when she spots him and scrambles to put the papers away. He looks at her suspiciously.

“Jaime.” She stands. She looks tall and regal in a simple day dress made of yellow cotton. She reminds him of a sunflower, reaching proudly for the sun.

“Interesting letters?” His curiosity is most definitely piqued. There are a great number of them on the desk, written mostly by the same hand, as far as he could tell. That’s the thing with Brienne – she has always been good at correspondence and keeping friends, unlike Jaime and the rest of the Lannisters. Keeping friends – hells, _making_ friends, is certainly not their forte.

“A few,” she nods. “One is from Dr. Snow. He asks after you and how you are doing with the new hand.”

“Tell him it’s my favorite thing in the whole wide world,” he says dryly, relieved that he left the blasted thing on the nightstand of his bedroom. Jaime laughs at her miffed expression and plops himself on the divan, stretching his legs out fully and lounging, the picture of indolence. He loosens his collar and mops his sweaty brow with a Lannister red handkerchief he pulls out from his pants pocket. He sighs loudly. He already feels exhausted.

“Wench, it’s already hot out. It’s going to get worse. How about we go to the pond today?”

A look of longing overcomes her as she primly tidies her desk. “Gods, the pond. I haven’t been there in ages.”

“Likewise. It’s the perfect day for it.” He knows he just needs to give her time until she gives in.

The corners of her lips twitch up, suppressing a smile. “Hmmm. Is Tyrion coming?”

“Oh. Do you want him to come? I hadn’t thought to ask.”

She flushes and shakes her head. “No, I just wondered.”

The path through the woods is lush and overgrown, but thankfully, the journey is mostly in the shade, so they are protected from the harshest rays of the sun. The pond does look especially inviting, the waters dark and deep, as the branches of the large trees loosely form a gentle green canopy above them. The sun and wind filter through the foliage, infusing the whole place with soft, golden light and cool breezes. This had been their secret place for as long as he could remember. 

“Gods. It’s still so beautiful,” Brienne breathes. 

Jaime nods. “Yes, it is. It is as if the war hasn’t touched this place at all.”

“The years truly have not changed it. I can almost picture all of us here, as we were before...” Her face is wistful and full of longing. She absentmindedly fingers the pendant on her neck.

“You must miss him so much.”

She turns to him, her eyes wet and wide. “I do. Gal was the best of us. The perfect son and brother. He protected me and I loved him and I can’t believe he’s gone.”

Jaime steps closer and takes her hand and caresses it with his thumb. “Gods, Brienne. I can’t imagine what you must be going through.” He shakes his head. “I’ve been entirely selfish – you’ve been taking care of me all this time and I hadn’t even considered that you might have needed time to mourn–”

“No, Jaime.” Her face is resolute. “I’m glad to have helped you. It took my mind off Gal, and gave me a purpose. I would have been so lonely and adrift without you.” She reaches up and absentmindedly runs her hands through his hair. Jaime can’t help but shiver at her touch. “Besides, you have no idea how happy I was that you came back alive. That you’re _here_. That you’re better than you were when you first arrived.”

“All thanks to you,” Jaime murmurs, closing his eyes at feel of her fingers moving across his scalp. He moves closer.

“You’re the one that did the work, Jaime. I just helped.” He thinks he sees fondness in her face for him, and that makes him immensely glad. She looks luminous in the filtered sunshine, her skin glowing, her lips pink. He has a momentary compulsion to kiss her. 

She smiles brightly. “Come on, I thought we were here to swim?” Like she has a number of times when they were growing up, she quickly unbuttons her dress and pulls it off her head, revealing her usual dark blue bathing suit, which covers her body down to her mid-thigh, but leaves her arms and collarbones bare. Jaime has seen her like this many times before, but he had never noticed the taut muscle of her shoulders or the bright creaminess of her skin and the tiny freckles that find home there. Indeed, now he does very much notice the long, tall length of her, the slight dips of her waist and hips, and how the skin-tight bathing suit clings to her form most revealingly. He finds himself staring, at once confused and vaguely aroused.

“Jaime? Aren’t you coming in?” Brienne looks at him curiously as she glides into the water. He realizes with a start that he has been gaping and unmoving like a bloody statue all this time.

“Of course, wench!” Jaime replies brightly, trying to disguise whatever is going on inside him.

He strips down to his shorts and walks to the water. Brienne is staring at him intently from the her place in the middle of the pond, her eyes wide, her heated gaze traveling down his shoulders and bare chest. 

“Did you forget that you’ve seen me entirely naked in the bath not two months ago, wench?” He teases. Her fierce blush is his reward.

She scowls at him. “I’m glad to see you’ve gained back the weight you’ve lost, is all. Besides, back then, you were….”

“Barely alive, not actually there. I remember,” he says softly. He swims awkwardly toward her now, his stump throwing him off-balance. He groans in frustration. He had been brilliant in the water when he had two hands.

“You’re doing well, you know.” She says, as if reading his mind. “In the water. You’ll get used to it and soon you’ll be swimming just as well as you once were.”

She spurs him on, splashes him, giggling, and makes him lunge at her only to have her elude his grasp. She is really like a fish, graceful and fluid in the lake. He has to work to try to catch up with her and when he does, she surprises him by dunking him under the water, her buoyant laughter echoing in the air. He laughs too and realizes that it’s the first time he’s had pure fun since he returned.

They lie down on a blanket on a warm, flat rock, luxuriating in the warmth and waiting for their bodies to dry. Brienne, ever practical, has brought water and bread and cheese. 

“This is heaven,” Jaime says, smiling a lazy smile at Brienne. “I wish we could stay like this forever.” 

She hums in agreement.

He turns to face her abruptly. “I adore you, you know.”

Brienne’s eyes go wide and a warmth suffuses her cheeks. “Oh. I’m very – very – fond of you too, Jaime.”

He feels there is nothing better in the world than this moment. He smiles brightly at her.

Yet there is a strange tension in her face. She frowns, thoughtful.

“Jaime, are you okay? I mean with Cersei getting married and moving away. I know how much you love her.”

His eyes are sharply focused on her. She looks concerned, her eyes wide. He shakes his head. “ _Loved._ Past tense. It was a mad thing we did. I loved her, I lusted after her, but it was always all wrong. I don’t know – I don't think I ever saw her for who she truly was until it was too late. Not to mention she was my twin sister,” he says darkly.

He remembers the half-frozen Melara and her undisguised terror of his sister. Surely he had known since then what kind of person she was, yet he had been so easily seduced, too intoxicated by her flesh and loveliness. He was a weak man.

She throws him an all too sympathetic glance. 

“You and Tyrion always saw who she was, didn’t you?” He had never thought to ask what either she or his brother really thought of Cersei.

She nods firmly. “She never hid who she was, not really. Not from us, anyway. You obviously saw her differently, knew her differently. We never saw the side of her that you loved.” Brienne’s fingers lightly graze his arm, sending shivers all along his skin. “I’ve said this before, but you do deserve someone who can love you, Jaime. You’ll find that person one day.”

He shakes his head. “Love, the whole thing. I don’t think I'm very good at it. Father, of course, is already trying to get me to meet all the eligible high-born ladies in this country.”

“Oh?” An odd blankness falls over her face like a gauze curtain. He frowns. They both are silent.

“And you, Brienne? Is there someone you’re thinking of?”

She turns her head to look at the calm water. “Father has been trying to arrange a match for me for years,” she laments. “But I don’t think love, marriage and children are in my future, even if I wished it.”

“Do you wish it?”

She sighs almost imperceptibly. “Doesn’t everyone wish to be loved? But not all of us get what we wish for, Jaime.” Her eyes are clear and her face placid when she turns back to him. “Instead, I've determined to be useful, and leave matters of the heart to the prettier ladies.”

Jaime is suddenly infused with a sense of injustice. Surely a kind, lovely creature like Brienne deserves love more than anybody else? She of all people. It was absurd, the way she spoke of herself and her future. He wants – he wants – 

She gives him a wry look. “Now don't go on a crusade for me, Jaime. I know the reality of my situation. I know what I look like.” She abruptly stands up. “Let’s go back before they send out a search party for us.”

He looks up at her helplessly, wanting to protest, to act, but not knowing exactly what to do.

**\--- <<<>>>\---**

In a bid to entice Jaime to consider matrimony, Tywin invites the Tyrells to Casterly for a week. The staff flitter and flutter about like excited worker bees, getting guest rooms ready and putting the house in proper order to receive visitors. Now that Jaime has more or less recovered, Tywin sets about his plans for the family legacy once again – Jaime is to soon take on some of the family business, a prospect which he would have resisted before the war; but considering few professions would be suitable for a useless, one-handed man, he decides to go along with his father’s career suggestion for once. He has less enthusiasm for the company of the Tyrells, however. They are a clever bunch, pleasantly polite but sharp and shrewd. There is Margaery, Loras, and their grandmother, the most distinguished Lady Olenna, who seems to be the sharpest of them all.

He remembers Margaery Tyrell from Cersei’s wedding as one of the young women who had approached him, but whom he had entirely ignored. Oh she was a beauty, of that there could be no doubt, with a slim build and perfect, curvaceous bust. Her ivory skin contrasted wonderfully with her brown hair, alongside pert little features and a dazzling smile complete with dimples. But she simply bores him. She is too polite, solicitous, self-aware. She is a neat package wrapped up in a perfect satin bow. The girl makes a point of ignoring his fake hand all together and smiles seductively at him. She takes his arm when they go to dinner and sits beside him in the drawing room, talking about the most innocuous matters, trying to draw him out with her considerable charm. It was truly aggravating to be in the presence of. 

“She is quite lovely, isn’t she?” Brienne says to him in a low voice. Jaime thinks the wench looks entirely too mournful, as if she was harboring some secret melancholy. He wonders if being around such young people reminds her of the lost Galladon, their faraway childhoods, those faraway lands, now as remote as the fairy stories she used to read. Margaery is at the piano, playing quite a complicated but cheerful tune, likely Mozart, her thin fingers flying across the black and white keys. An accomplished young woman, there could be no doubt.

“I suppose so,” Jaime replies noncommittally. He isn’t looking at Margaery, he is looking at Brienne, and he thinks she looks particularly handsome in her green evening gown, the heavy silk gliding around her hips and shimmering lowly in the evening light. 

“Her family is wealthy, and she is actually very nice.” Brienne pauses, thoughtful. “She and the Tyrells have been surprisingly kind and considerate to me.”

Jaime looks at her in surprise. “But of course they would be kind to you, wench. You are by far the most interesting person in the room. I must say, Lady Olenna seems particularly fascinated by you.” 

Brienne’s cheeks turn a pretty rosy hue. He is pleased to imagine that her countenance brightens because of his words and his teasing looks. Pleasing Brienne is one of the true joys of his life.

“Do you play, Miss Tarth?” Loras Tyrell, lean and handsome in his velvet and brocade suit, approaches them, smiling at Brienne. Jaime glowers a little at the interruption.

“Very poorly, I’m afraid. Especially in comparison to your sister. She is very talented.”

Loras smiles, his features gallant. “Ah, there she is now,” he says, as the young lady in question, dressed in an intricate evening gown of white and green, approaches them and stands at Jaime’s elbow. Margaery dimples a smile at their small group, and soaks up their pretty compliments with humility and grace.

Loras leans in all too familiarly toward Brienne. “Miss Tarth, I have been given orders to bring you to my grandmother. She is positively eager to pepper you with questions about your nursing career.” With that, Loras rather too boldly takes Brienne’s arm and leads her away from him.

Margaery, following his gaze, nods. “She is rather singular, isn’t she?”

Jaime looks down at the pretty girl, and seeing no hint of mockery, smiles warmly at the young woman for the first time. She seems to bask in that benevolent heat. “That she is.”

“You grew up with her, I believe?”

Jaime nods. “The Tarths moved here almost ten years ago. We’ve spent a lot of time together.”

“She seems determined to keep with nursing, even though the war is over. Surely she doesn’t need to work, being the Tarth heiress?”

Jaime shrugged. “She wants to be useful, I think. Have some purpose.” He spies Brienne sitting between Lady Olenna and Loras, with a laughing Tyrion nearby. She throws him a slightly desperate, lost glance before the older lady grabs her hand and her attention.

“Hmmm.” Margaery’s eyes narrow in thought. “Still, I wonder if she would marry. She would be a useful sort of wife, managing households and the like.”

Jaime is silent, frowning slightly at those words. Margaery smiles, covering up any awkwardness on both their parts. “I’m glad to see you’ve fully recovered, Captain Lannister. You look so well.”

He nods, smiling at her faintly, but says nothing. This is a cunning one, he thinks to himself.

The persistent young woman ploughs on. “Loras has told me about your heroic deeds in the front. He served in the air force during the war, but word still travels about the famous Jaime Lannister.”

He scoffs. She squeezes his arm and leans close so his elbow brushes the swells of her breasts. Her face is turned up to him, her eyes brown and liquid. Her red lips part and she leans closer, as if readying for a kiss. 

Jaime has to conceal his instinctive recoil and the immediate impulse to push her away. His skin prickles. He has a distinct flashback to Cersei, her casual seductions and manipulations which had worked on him so well for so long. But now, he only has distaste for the same maneuvers – Margaery strikes him as being immensely self-aware, rather intelligent, but all too knowing of how to use her looks to get her own way. He has come to realize that the quality he likes most in a woman, the quality he is realizing that is most rare – is innocence.

He pushes her away, though gently. “Excuse me, Miss Tyrell. I must see to the other guests,” he says vaguely, gesturing to the air, and walks away, leaving her with a slightly confused expression.

Later that evening, Margaery seems nonplussed at the awkward interaction with him and appears to be giggling and enjoying herself with Tyrion, who appears to be extra solicitous to make up for Jaime’s profound disinterest. 

In the corner of his eye, he glimpses Brienne saying her farewells to Lady Olenna and later, his father. Before she slips out the door, Jaime playfully takes her arm.

“Leaving so soon, Miss Tarth?” Jaime delights in watching her skin go gloriously rosy before his eyes.

“Yes. It was a lovely evening.”

“Was it?”

“Margaery seems wonderful, and she seems to like you.”

“And you?”

“What?” Her eyes are impossibly large, impossibly blue.

“Do _you_ like me?” He bats his eyelashes for effect.

Brienne rolls her eyes and gives him a gentle shove. “Gods, Jaime. Don’t tease.”

She walks out the door. Her strides are so godsdamn long. He follows her, almost having to trot to catch up with her.

“What are you doing?” She scowls at him. Jaime can’t help but smile at the welcome sight.

“I’m escorting a lady home, of course. After all, the night is dark and full of terrors.” He laughs and threads his arm around hers again. 

Her scowl relaxes into a crooked smile. “Alright, then. Only because you seem particularly needy tonight.”

“I always need you.” He can’t help it if the sentence comes out in a slight whine.

She stares at him for a moment, her eyes shining in the moonlight. Laughter is budding at the corners of her mouth. “Hmmm. Feeling sentimental, are we?”

He looks down, and marvels at how well-matched their steps are. Her gown makes a pleasant swishing noise on the grass. There remains a hint of a smile on her lips and Jaime at once wants to catch it with his own lips. 

“Do you think you’ll marry her?”

“Who? Oh, Margaery?” He is dumbfounded at the suggestion.

“She’s very beautiful. And she comes from a good family. Money. Your father would be pleased.”

“Wench, I’m already pleasing my father by agreeing to go into the family business.”

She gazes at him, her expression unreadable, the smile replaced by a slight downturn of her lips. 

“Do you _want_ me to marry her, wench? Do you wish to be rid of me so soon, Miss Tarth?” He can’t help but smile teasingly at her. The night was too calm and lovely for such a serious conversation.

She is silent, stubborn and mulish. Jaime sighs.

“Well. In truth, I don’t think I wish to marry at all. I would only marry for love and look where that has gotten me.” His tone is breezy and light, but he cannot prevent dark thoughts from returning.

He thinks of Cersei and the pain of her betrayal, that she is now another man’s wife, how she had ignored him for all the years he was away at war, her look of revulsion every time she saw his stump. He couldn't believe how completely willing she was to end up in another man’s bed – after all, Jaime had been entirely faithful to her. He had even wanted them to run away to another continent and marry, and hadn’t even desired any other woman besides her. No, he does not think that he is meant for love. Perhaps he has squandered his one chance on very obviously the wrong person, and Cupid has sheathed his arrow, saving his aim for a worthier target.

She looks at him, her regard so soft and clear and sympathetic it makes him melt a little. She squeezes his arm and he can’t help but lean against her as they continue their stroll.

The moon, nearly full, glows with a pretty white light that seems to be reflected in Brienne’s skin. All of a sudden, his melancholy fog lifts. It was too dull to be wretched on such a beautiful night as this.

“Damn marriage. Why should we let that interfere with our lives? I want us to remain just as we are, you and I, spending all our time together. We’ll go swimming and ride horses and go for car rides into town. We’ll take up tennis. You could wrestle me into the dirt whenever you desired and you don’t even have to wear bloody blooming dresses if you don’t want to.”

Brienne gives a little chuckle but averts her eyes. “That sounds like a wonderful dream, Jaime.”

They reach her house. She squeezes his hand and unwraps her arm from him. Jaime moans a protest.

“Can’t I stay with you tonight, Brienne? I don’t want to go back and face those people again. To think, they’re here for the rest of the week.”

Brienne has the gall to laugh at him, the sound a bright tinkling in his ears. She sighs. “You’ll survive, Jaime.”

He grumbles as he walks away. Gods, the five-minute walk back is interminable. For variety, he stops by the stable and gives Honor, his favourite horse, a sweet red apple. He toys with the idea of a midnight ride and wishes Brienne would join him for it. Instead, he lays his head against the horse’s white flank, feeling its warmth and the low, slow rise of its breathing.


	5. Five: Offering

Months pass. Tyrion returns to Oxford to pursue his graduate studies in literature, while Jaime is officially installed in the Lannister offices in nearby Lannisport in the position of Vice President. He doesn’t know exactly what his role is there, in his plush office sequestered away from most of the office workers. What he ends up doing is a lot easier than expected, though he finds it tedious to the extreme. He discovers that the company is filled with such competent staff that they barely need him, except for when decisions need to be made or papers need to be signed. Jaime finds himself sitting in what used to be his father’s large mahogany office, reading reports, practicing his penmanship or attending meetings with clients and investors. 

He learns that his good looks, charm, and the Lannister name tend to make people overlook his missing hand. He chuckles to himself as he remembers how he used to fantasize about going back home to a life of routine and stability, all of which sounded rather glamorous, he supposed, when you could die at any second from a bullet or flying shrapnel and moldering in a bed of mud. Now that he actually has that routine and regular job, things are much duller than what his fantasies had imagined over in France.

Not only that, but Jaime is alone at Casterly. With Jaime’s presence in the Lannisport offices, Tywin increasingly focuses on London and spends most of his time away. Jaime finds himself rattling the large manor like a very bored ghost. He reads poetry aloud to spirits that may be lurking about in the cavernous halls of Casterly, and laughs absurdly at his own reflection in the dark. The sounds of the house wail and howl during storms and he manages just to survive those nights by drowning himself in whisky and wine.

He walks over to the Tarth house at every free moment. Brienne, now a full-fledged nurse, is employed at the hospital where she trained, and so is often away working, much to Jaime’s disappointment. He longs to go back to those innocent days of their youth, so at his encouragement, they spend their free time together riding, practicing their shooting, or chatting about innocuous things. They laugh freely again. They take up tennis. They even return to boxing, though they tend to go easy on each other since it would not do for either of them to show up at work with a bruise or a black eye. To make things even, the wench only uses one hand while sparring with him. He likes it best when their bouts invariably devolve to a wrestling match. It is tremendous fun, as Brienne is very ticklish. Jaime would have been happy with this existence for the rest of his days. He finds that he rather likes his life when he’s around Brienne.

One day, on the way to the Tarth residence, Jaime spots the distinctive, tall, sinewy figure of Stannis Baratheon striding out of the house and driving away in his black motor car. Stannis is Robert’s younger brother who, in truth, looks much older than his elder, more florid brother. Jaime remembers his pinched, disapproving expression and the man’s overall impression of weariness, his impatience at the indulgences of his two brothers and his very strict sense of duty. At the sight of him driving very responsibly away, Jaime’s mood turns strangely sour. 

Jaime discovers Brienne standing in the library, looking well in a modest dove grey gown buttoned all the way up to her neck. Spots of red flag her cheeks when she glimpses Jaime entering the room.

She looks – well, odd, a new awkwardness in her movements, brows furrowed slightly, her mouth tight.

“Jaime.” Her voice is low and melodious.

“Wench. I glimpsed Stannis Baratheon when he was just leaving. I had no idea he was in town.”

“Yes. Well, he came to pay a surprise visit.”

“To your father?” She frowns, shaking her head, and something flitters inside Jaime. “No. To you?”

She sits down deliberately on a leather armchair and gestures for him to sit in the other. Jaime reads her face – she is going to tell him something she thinks he doesn’t want to hear. 

“We’ve been corresponding, you see, for some months now.” Her lips are pursed. “He came here to make an offer.”

“An offer? Surely not to you?” Jaime’s voice is incredulous.

Irritation flashes on her face. “I know you must think it difficult and improbable that a man would ever want to make me an offer–”

“What – wait – he made you an offer of marriage? _Stannis Baratheon_?” He sinks down in his seat, unwilling to hear what she is saying. This is a catastrophe. 

“Yes–”

“Wait. Isn’t he already married? With a child?” He remembers the pale, pinched woman, cold and remote - Selyse, he thought her name was – she was never one who had ever warmed to his smiles.

She glares at him. “He’s a widow – his wife died in the Spanish Flu epidemic last year, if you can recall. And yes, he has an eight-year-old daughter, Shireen.”

Jaime can’t help it, he makes a face. “But Brienne, he’s so old. So dull. He’s withered and strict and his lips are very thin.”

“He’s only thirty, Jaime.” Brienne’s face is stubbornly blank. Why can’t she see what an awful idea this is?

“But Brienne, he’s going to suck the life out of you. He’ll make you a husk of a woman. You don’t deserve such a fate. Did you know he corrects people’s grammar?”

Brienne sighs and lifts her white freckled hand to rub her forehead. She seems tired, the wench. But she is also avoiding his gaze and Jaime is vibrating with a sense of dread.

“Brienne, you don’t...you don’t _love_ him, do you?” His heart seems to skip a beat or two as he looks at her anxiously.

Much to his relief, she throws him an annoyed glance and huffs. “Of course not.” She regards him coolly now, her eyes clear.

“Father has been trying to make a match for me for years, Jaime. As you well know.”

“This is Selwyn’s doing?” He has the sudden urge to sit the old man down and demand him not to interfere with the life of his magnificent daughter. She deserves to be left alone, to live her life as she pleases – hopefully alongside Jaime.

“Stannis is a good man.”

“You can’t be _serious_.” Jaime feels his heart pound in his chest. A disaster. The thought of glorious, long-limbed Brienne wasted on the weathered, brittle bones of Stannis – of all people – makes him want to wretch. 

She stares at him with a disapproving, cold-eyed stare.

“He’s an uncompromising, decrepit old man, wench. You _cannot_ be serious.”

“He’s a surgeon who served in the war. I could be of use to him.” Her tone is mulish to the extreme. Stubborn, silly wench.

“Is this what this is about? Duty? _Being of use_? Are you sacrificing yourself?”

“His daughter is lovely,” she equivocates.

“I concede you that. But do you already want to be a mother to an eight-year-old child, shackled to a man who would never understand your passions and your true nature?”

Brienne gives a monumental sigh that he feels reverberating in his bones. She anxiously twists at the skirt of her sensible grey gown. “Jaime. You don’t understand. This is the only legitimate offer I’ve had. I can’t, in good conscience, ignore this.”

He pouts, his voice rising and demanding. “Why on earth do you want to get married, Brienne? You’ll be chained for life to someone you’ll come to hate.”

Brienne, shaking with some incomprehensible emotion, stands up and turns away from him. Jaime suppresses the urge to go after her and shake some sense to the silly woman. She looks out the window and throws a glance back at him, her profile strong and proud.

“I want a family. I know I’ll never get to have real love, but at least Stannis is agreeable to starting a family with me. And no matter what you think, he is a kind man, a good man, though he may not show it, and that is more than I can say for most of the men whom I’ve encountered. And he doesn’t mind...how I am.”

“ _How_ you are?” Jaime asks, incredulous.

“The way I look. That I’m not pretty or that I’m not a lady. That I like to tramp about in breeches.”

Jaime shakes his head, not believing the words coming out of her mouth.

“Brienne.” He gets up now, and takes her hand gently lest he scare her off. “You are better than all the ladies out there; hells, you’re better than all the men in the world, myself included.”

She remains silent, her blue eyes wavering with unshed tears. He rubs her fine hands and long, elegant fingers.

“Have you said yes?” Jaime’s throat feels all at once unbearably tight, his heart thudding with dread.

She shakes her head. “Not yet. He’s willing to wait. He is in town for a fortnight, and I suspect he wants an answer before he leaves.”

“Brienne. You can’t.” Jaime feels something clutching at his chest. He doesn’t care that he sounds desperate. He has half a mind to go down on his knees and drape himself over her legs and beg her not to sacrifice her life away.

She turns to him, weariness on her face. “We can’t be children forever, Jaime. Some of us have to grow up.”

**\--- <<<>>>\---**

And so it is that he finds himself at dinner with Brienne, Stannis, Selwyn, and his father one horrid evening. Jaime is admittedly in a peevish mood, but he has dressed in one of his best outfits: a dark blue jacket, quite extravagant and made of a stiff silk, alongside a long poetic cravat wound artistically around his throat. He thinks Tyrion would be proud of his rather bohemian costume for the evening, and he is sure Tywin is annoyed at his artfully disheveled appearance. Brienne is in an evening gown the colour of a robin’s egg, the cut rather simple and plain but suiting her quite well. She sits next to Stannis, who is wearing a drab black suit, looking more like an undertaker than ever. Jaime wonders if the man owns anything except black suits. He rather doubts it. He thinks that Brienne sitting next to Stannis is all wrong, like a striking blue flower placed next to a heap of coal. Jaime is sitting opposite Brienne, to better observe the plethora of emotions that play over her features. Selwyn is at the head of the table while Tywin sits next to Jaime.

Dinner, as expected, is intolerable. He had thought that his father and Stannis would get along famously because they were both obviously very controlled, rather scrupulous and severe in their manners, but the conversation between them is clipped, minimal and peevish. They are suspicious and defensive and not willing to concede a single point. In any other circumstance, Jaime would have gloried in observing their tense exchanges, but he has much too much on his mind at the moment.

The conversation, as it often does, turns to politics and the election of the first female MP, Asha Greyjoy, to Parliament. 

Selwyn chuckles, shaking his head. “What has the world gone to? A woman member of Parliament. I’m sure people voted for her out of novelty.”

Brienne gives her father the briefest of disappointed looks, and stills her face.

“Are people surprised that this happened? We give women the vote and of course they demand more.” Tywin shakes his head. “It was a mistake to give into the Suffragettes’ militant tactics. Violent methods should never have been rewarded.”

Stannis’ visage is sour when he looks dismissively at Tywin. “Mr. Lannister, I rather think the vote had less to do with rewarding violent tactics than recognizing the worth and intelligence of women as was very well demonstrated in the war.”

Brienne looks at Stannis with surprise. The balding man takes on a determined and rather terrifying expression. “While the men went off to war, who took over men’s jobs and proved they could excel in it? Who maintained the economy and industries to support the whole of England along with our troops?”

“A whole gaggle of knitting women–” 

“Yes, knitting women who sent socks across to our boys. Speaking from experience as a surgeon, those socks likely saved our soldiers from cold and infection. But women were also munitions workers, mechanics – in fact, my brother Renly said he had a female mechanic that worked on his plane whom he said was the best he’d ever worked with. Not to mention the women doctors and nurses like our Miss Tarth here.”

The Miss Tarth in question is staring at Stannis with wide eyes, excitement brightening her complexion. Jaime too perks up, suddenly fascinated at the turn in conversation. He is very interested in the spark he finds in Brienne’s eyes, not to mention the glowering expression in his father’s face. One thing about his father is that he does not like being contradicted or challenged.

Brienne raises her chin and sits up straight. “Had I the vote, I too, would have voted for Asha Greyjoy. She appears much more competent than most of the male politicians I’ve seen or read about.” She looks at both her father and Tywin pointedly. “But I don’t have the vote, do I? Most women still don’t, though you seem to think the passing of the Representation of the People Act last year was a major victory for our sex.” Her grip on her fork is tight. “But I remind you that only women over the age of thirty and who own land can vote. I think I’m as competent and intelligent as any man my age who has the ability to vote, but I’m ineligible to do so.”

“Hear, hear!” Jaime pronounces, raising his wine glass in a toast to the wench. She meets his eyes – gods, they are blazing – and turns positively scarlet. Stannis’ lips quirk into a smile. Jaime can hardly believe his eyes at the sight of the man smiling. The view is indisputably ghoulish, his skin stretched tight.

Selwyn gives his daughter a rather indulgent grin and chuckles. “Dear me, how have we strayed from that old adage to never talk in polite company about politics!” He looks around, a little desperately, for a distraction. “Now see here, dessert!” An immense crystal serving bowl of trifle appears, its layers of cake, jelly, berries, custard and whipped cream demanding the full attention of the guests. Jaime admits that it does look amazingly good and is wonderfully distracting.

After dinner, Brienne is persuaded to play the piano for the assembled gentlemen, and her playing, while not as accomplished as Margaery Tyrell, is simple in its approach but imbued with immense feeling. She has a rare gift, Jaime muses; she plays to enjoy the music, not to show off – that is an important distinction.

“She is quite exceptional, isn’t she?” Stannis says, approaching Jaime as they listen to the last few strains of the Chopin nocturne. 

Jaime nods, narrowing his eyes at the man. He is unattractive, gaunt, and balding. Positively skeletal. He turns to him now. “Did you mean what you said at dinner, about women’s suffrage?”

The doctor looks a little peeved that his sincerity is seemingly being questioned. “Of course. I always mean what I say.” He pauses and his sharp features soften a little. “I worked alongside women like Miss Tarth – volunteers that chose to do the brave thing and risk their lives on the front. My respect for their work is immeasurable.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” The wench has a soft, transported look on her face, as she often does in the moments after she finishes playing an astonishing piece of music. It is one of Jaime’s favourite expressions of hers, and is a sign, he thinks, of her true romantic soul.

Stannis turns his dark eyes to him, searching his face. In it, Jaime is surprised to discover a plain sort of earnestness. This irritates Jaime. “You are Miss Tarth’s closest friend, so everyone tells me.”

Jaime nods, but remains silent. 

He follows Stannis’ gaze to find the man’s eyes entirely absorbed in studying the shy blushes of Brienne. _His_ Brienne. It is beyond endurance. Jaime cannot imagine Brienne’s soft looks, her tentative and affectionate glances directed at someone other than him.

Jaime’s expression is half feral, his tone possessive. “She saved me twice, you know. Once on the front as a nurse, and once when I came home a broken man. I owe my life to her.”

Stannis nods, looking at Jaime with a curious sort of expression. “She hasn’t made up her mind about me yet. But I think I can give her a good life; I believe she will be content with me and Shireen.”

“But you don’t love her.”

“I don’t know her well enough to love her,” Stannis replies honestly, pursing his lips. “And I readily admit that I’m not someone so easily moved by emotion, or prone to romantic notions. I’m much too practical of a man to go into romantic raptures. But I hope that we will grow to respect, if not love each other in our own way. With time.” Stannis’ eyes seem to sweep intently long Brienne’s long neck, long arms, long torso, and very long legs. Jaime inexplicably feels a sense of violation.

Jaime frowns. Brienne, having moved away from the piano, glances nervously at Jaime and Stannis. 

The man’s eyes are too much on Brienne. _His_ Brienne. This would not do. His mind flashes to Brienne in the marital bed, pale and grey, suffocating under the dusty weight of this man moving mechanically above her, all the colour leached out of her, all the light dimmed from her eyes.

Jaime turns to Stannis, his eyes flashing and vivid green. His mind feels like a lightning bolt has shocked it.

“This is what you don’t understand about Miss Tarth, Dr. Baratheon.” He feels the words come out forcefully, unbidden. Jaime doesn’t care if he appears rude or that his voice is too full of some unnamable emotion. “She is a creature of love, made for love, every part of her. That is something you are hopeless to comprehend. You are incapable of conceiving or understanding her.” He pauses, glaring at the main with a cutting look. “I wonder if you will make her happy, after all.”

Jaime shrugs and walks off, leaving Stannis frowning after him.

**\--- <<<>>>\---**

Jaime dreams about a bear, a gaunt, ragged creature that stands tall on its hind legs, its paws in the air, roaring and angry. Much to his alarm, Brienne is in a pit with the ferocious beast, in the same hideous pink dress she wore to her coming out ball, armed with only a dulled sword. He looks on helplessly as she slashes at the snarling creature and tries to scramble away, but the bear is enraged and swipes brutally at her, its immense claws slicing her shoulder open. Blood blooms on her pale skin. Looking down, Jaime is filled with panic. He stares at his one remaining hand, his ugly stump, then at the bear and at Brienne. His heart squeezes. Without even thinking, he jumps. He throws dirt at the creature in a futile, desperate gesture, infuriating the beast even more. She yells in surprise at seeing him beside her and tries to hold him back, and they absurdly end up pushing each other to see who would be in front, trying to save each other in the face of certain death. For it is certain death, because the bear approaches, smelling fresh blood and growling and lunging toward them. The beast opens its big jaw, teeth sharp as knives– 

Jaime gasps awake, his heart thundering in his chest and his ghost of a hand burning in pain.

He spends hours after the absurd dream tossing and turning, unable to rest. He cannot shake the feeling of the wench, his angel, being in danger. Or perhaps he is just being selfish and jealous – _jealous_? – wanting her all to himself. Is it so wrong to want things to remain as they are, with her being next door, and he going to her and them laughing together as always? Why do things always need to change? The dream returns to him in flashes every time he closes his eyes. He sees the blood on her skin, skin tearing open, her frightened expression. 

He thinks this dream is even worse than the nightmares of being in the war, of being deep in the trenches. Those dreams are at least familiar because he sees the horrific images over and over, and knows them. With repetition comes a loss of their power to terrify. But he has never felt as hopeless as he does after this dream about Brienne. He could not lose her, not ever. Not Brienne. He would not. His chest aches and his heart beats painfully. He feels an overwhelming need to save her from the starveling clutches of Stannis.

The following morning, Jaime meets her in the field at the back of her house, holding a bunch of wildflowers he had earlier gathered before dawn. When she approaches, dressed in a white shirt and loose tan breeches, ready for her morning ambulation, he offers the flowers to her. 

Brienne stops her stride and looks at him with surprise, her eyes already bluer than the sky. “For me?” Her voice is tentative and uncertain.

Jaime nods, smiling almost shyly. 

She holds the bouquet gingerly and looks at the tiny blue and yellow flowers like they are the most beautiful treasures she has ever seen. “Jaime...these are lovely. Thank you.” She pauses, thoughtful. “No one has ever given me flowers before.”

“You deserve it, Brienne,” he says softly, and starts to walk away from the house and toward the meadow and forest. He hears her soft tread behind him.

They stroll in companionable silence for a few moments. Brienne tentatively looks at Jaime, her skin softly flushed. 

“What are your impressions of Stannis?”

Jaime looks around him, as if searching for words in the trees. “He…seems like a good sort. He certainly has the right views on women, and perhaps won’t be as overbearing as I would have initially thought.”

She nods, contemplative and silent. “Yes. I was – impressed by his opinions as well. Rather encouraged by them, as a matter of fact.”

They stop at a clearing in the trees, the sun bathing the little grassy meadow in golden morning light. 

She looks at him, her expression innocent and guileless and trusting. It would not do. He could not bear the thought of that sallow ghoul of a man laying his claws into his wench, his angel. He would not bear her getting hurt. The austere, stern man did not deserve such a magnificent creature as Brienne. Jaime had to do something.

“He’s cold and passionless and could never love you, wench,” he burst out. The words seem to rush out of him by their own accord. Even he is surprised at their vehemence as soon as they leave his mouth. He feels like a storm is inside his chest. 

Brienne raises an eyebrow at his words, but calmly looks back at him, her expression unreadable.

Jaime pulls at his hair in frustration. He bites his lip. “You can’t marry him, Brienne. Don’t throw your life away for a life of duty and servitude. You deserve so much more than that Stannis bloodless Baratheon.” 

“Jaime–”

“I won’t stand by while you throw your life away on this man. How can you think that he can ever make you happy? You might not think so now, but he will never allow you to be entirely yourself, and that’s what you need to be, entirely yourself, because you are magnificent and daring and brave.” He doesn’t care if he sounds pleading. His eyes burn as he intently examines her face.

She is pale and silent. His hand reaches out slowly and fingers the St. Christopher pendant that rests between her collarbones as her breath stutters at his touch. Her eyes lower to his matching medallion around his neck.

“We survived the war. We deserve to be happy, don’t we?” Jaime’s tone is anguished, his voice suddenly soft. He wants her to desperately understand. 

He traces her pink cheeks with the tips of his fingers. Her eyes are impossible.

Her visage becomes confused, a furrow appears between her eyes. Her cheeks are flushed and her lips are pink and pillowy. “Jaime, what is going–”

He kisses her.

He kisses her, his mouth interrupting her words. It’s awkward because he half lunges at her, but it’s also glorious as he feels the warm press of her lips against his, her mouth at first stiff in surprise but suddenly becoming soft and yielding. She smells of fresh flowers and she tastes like the honey that she undoubtedly had for breakfast, and he is soon enveloped in her warmth and the tantalizing nearness of her body. Everything about this feels right. His body is very much telling him this feels completely right. 

When he breaks off the kiss, she stares at him, her eyes large and shocked. Her lips are now red as heat spreads from her face down to her neck.

He grins, absurdly happy. His heart is thudding inside his chest and his blood is warm. Gods, he wants her. All of her. But of course he does.

“Oh,” Brienne says, still stunned. She absentmindedly touches her lips.

She frowns.

“What? Why–” She breaks off, unable to form coherent words. 

“You can’t marry Stannis, Brienne.” He pauses. “I can’t be without you.”

Unexpectedly, her eyes sharpen and turn icy. She gives him a piercing, unhappy gaze. “If you think by kissing me, you can prevent me from marrying Stannis and keep me all to yourself, like a maiden locked in a tower – it’s _cruel,_ Jaime – you know very well no one would have me, and you’d rather me be alone just to subsist on the scraps of your friendship than have this chance.”

“Don’t be a fool. _Brienne_.”

She sputters in indignation. Her fists are clenched beside her.

“Jaime-”

“Brienne.”

Her eyebrows are raised in alarm and she vehemently shakes her head. “I don’t want you to kiss me because you are afraid of losing me to marriage, or because you’ll be losing your loyal companion. I’m not your little lap dog.”

Gods, he wants to shake sense into her. He has to make her understand. Instead he grasps her shoulders and kisses her again, quickly and harshly, and when he draws back, they are both left panting.

“Stupid, stubborn wench. Can’t you see? I can’t let anyone have you. You are mine. And I’m entirely yours.”

She looks dumbfounded. Utterly wrecked. Stunned. She shakes her head again, disbelieving. “You can’t mean – that can’t be – _Jaime_.”

He kisses her, soft sweet pecks this time, on her lips, her cheeks, her neck. He lowers his head and swipes his tongue to taste the skin on her neck. A slow moan is teased out of her throat, and the sound makes his cock throb in response.

“Oh my angel, how many times do I have to kiss the truth into you? _I love you_ , you silly, stubborn, wonderful girl.”

She stands there, still as a statue and he sees another blush travel up her neck and suffuse her face with a brightness to rival the dawn. She drops the little bunch of wildflowers in disbelief. Her eyes seem to be the largest things on her face. He loves her, it is entirely true. He was an oblivious fool to not have realized it before.

“No. This can’t be.”

She looks so adorably young and incredulous that he kisses both her cheeks, deepening their colour to a crimson on her already flushed face.

They look at each other. Brienne’s eyes are the ocean, the sky, the stars, and all the lights combined.

“Are you sure, Jaime? Is it true?” She shakes her head.

He takes her hand.

He kisses her lips again, eager – so eager – for he can’t seem to stop. “Yes. I love you, Brienne.” He searches her face, willing her to see the truth in his eyes. 

She looks at him for a long time, and suddenly he notices a softening in her features, although her eyes get even wider. He watches as a slow realization comes over her. Belief. There, he thinks. She knows he wants her. She knows he is in love with her.

He loves her, and has loved her for ages, he thinks. He was just too stupid and distracted to admit it.

Her face relaxes and he finally reads relief in her expression; a warm glow of joy seems to illuminate her skin. “I can’t believe it. It can’t be true.” Her voice is soft, altogether too tender, incredulous. A strange tension within Jaime deflates and he feels a trill run up his spine.

This time it is she who kisses him, ever so shyly. It is the greatest thing on earth.

“I love you, Brienne Tarth,” he repeats. He kisses her back tenderly. 

She is lit up, her smile gentle. “I love you, Jaime Lannister. I’ve loved you since you saved me from those boys at my coming out ball. I just never thought you’d feel the same–”

He takes her hands and draws it to his lips. “And I’ve loved you ever since I opened my eyes in that shack of a hospital when I was wounded and saw your angel eyes look down at me, Brienne. You’ve saved me over and over. You are the best person I’ve ever known. How can I not fall in love with you, and stay in love with you?”

She gives an eager cry and throws her arms around his neck and pulls him close. Her proximity is almost too much. He feels the softness of her, her strength, her solidity, the way she completely fills his arms, how their hips are perfectly aligned, and it is near torture as their bodies come together and he feels his hardness press into the warm core of her. He wants to pull her down onto the grass and run his hands all over her body. He wants to tear off her breeches and tongue her until she’s wet and squirming under his mouth. He desperately wants to sink his cock into her. 

Reluctantly, he pulls away.

Her hair is wild, her eyes are ablaze, her cheeks and lips are red, and she looks already half-ravished. He has never seen anyone more beautiful. Gods, he wants her and he can feel the pull of her body on his. She regards him, silent, but with eyes astonished and warm. Her hand traces her jaw and she runs her fingers through his hair, making his scalp tingle. He leans into her and they touch foreheads; he feels the warmth of her breath on his lips and cheek. Jaime thinks he has never been so close to someone ever before.

“Jaime,” Brienne whispers. “What will happen now?” 

“I suppose, next I ask you to marry me.”

She draws in a breath, shocked, and pulls away a little, so she is searching his eyes for some kind of truth there.

“Will you?” He looks at her, suddenly nervous.

“Oh?”

He can’t help it, she is adorable, and he wraps his hands around her waist.

“Will you marry me, Brienne Tarth?”

“Are you sure?” She looks at him, half hopeful, half skeptical. “I thought you didn’t want to get married.”

“I said I would only marry for love. And I love you, Brienne Tarth.” He pulls her even closer and he feels her breasts against his, their hearts beating wildly. “Marry me. Be mine. I want to spend every day with you. I want to spend of the rest of my life with you.”

Her eyes grow wide, impossibly taking in the light of the morning. Her face is open, vulnerable, trusting, making something inside him want to burst.

He feels like he’s on the verge of a great precipice. He looks at her. She has the power to completely crush him into the dirt.

“Well, then...yes.”

Her smile begins just as a little thing, a bud really, but soon blossoms into the brightest, most radiant smile Jaime has ever seen. He is sure he is smiling too, just as wide. He can feel both their hearts pounding together as they embrace, in tune with one another. She feels warm and alive and steady in his arms. Jaime thinks to himself that there is no better feeling in the word. Loving, and to be loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes
> 
> The Representation of the People Act passed in 1918 in Great Britain and Ireland, which allowed men over the age of 21 to vote, and gave the vote to women over the age of 30 (who owned land and other conditions). 
> 
> Spanish Flu epidemic lasted from 1918 - 1920. Quite horrible timing considering the end of the war.
> 
> The first woman MP was elected in 1918, the Irish revolutionary Constance Georgine Markievicz. However she did not take her seat as per her party's abstentionist policy.


	6. Six: Two Rings

“Are you _positive_ you want identical rings?” Mr. Gendry asks, giving them a skeptical stare. The young man is dressed in a smart brown suit, black hair neatly slicked back, yet he still retains a subtle bull-headedness in the way he speaks and frowns at Jaime and Brienne. “Most ladies want something more decorative, say, a ring set with a large stone, gold filigree, carvings – the like. Two rather plain gold bands – it’s not usual.”

The two of them are standing in front of a glass counter in most exclusive jewelry store in London. Everything they see – from the glass cases, to the jewelry and watches, are brilliant and shining. The electric lights are so bright they are almost blinding, reflecting off the crystal chandeliers that ostentatiously hang from the ceiling. Faraway, the soft sounds of a tinkling piano play in the background, and the air is lightly perfumed with a pleasantly unobtrusive but unidentifiable scent.

“There is nothing usual about us,” Jaime replies, glib and proud, his eyes full of amusement. Brienne gives his right arm a squeeze and a pointed look, a warning to be civil and kind and not make fun of the well-intentioned fellow.

The young man furrows his brow, self-consciously adjusting his necktie. He sighs and finally jots down the order. “All right, Captain. Two identical gold bands, embedded with a single sapphire and a ruby.”

There is a quirk of mischievousness in Jaime’s mouth. “Would you kindly make sure the sapphires match the future Mrs. Lannister’s eyes exactly? It’s somewhat of a requirement, I’m afraid.”

Brienne purses her lips, gives him a very familiar peevish glare, which delights him. “Jaime. That is an unreasonable request, surely. Utterly ridiculous. Leave the poor man alone.”

Jaime smiles, takes her hand in his and squeezes reassuringly. “Why do you think I’m paying the gentleman a fortune, wench? I’m sure he will try his best. Won’t you, Mr. Gendry? You have the reputation of being the finest craftsman in the business, after all.”

The tall, dark-haired man straightens his shoulders and smiles proudly. “That I am, Captain Lannister.” He tilts his head in thought. “Your request is unusual, but we have accommodated unique requests before. I will endeavour to find the sapphire that best matches Miss Tarth’s eyes.” He clears his throat, gestures vaguely in Brienne’s direction. “Err...may I?”

The young man takes a minute – nay, more time than that, staring into his future wife’s eyes. Jaime feels discomforted all of a sudden at the intensity of the man’s stare into the eyes of his intended. He realizes how handsome the young man in front of him is, all dark-haired, sculpted jaw and piercing blue eyes of his own. Perhaps it was an unreasonable requirement after all, he thinks, squirming at the two of them. His dear wench is being quite a sport about it, however, staring back unabashedly.

It is Mr. Gendry’s face that turns red and not Brienne’s, surprisingly enough. The man nods, stealing a last lingering look at Jaime’s beloved. “I have the colour fixed in my mind, Captain Lannister.”

Jaime nods in satisfaction. “Now, if you do find another stone that matches the colour of her eyes, make her a matching necklace, would you?”

“Jaime! It’s too much,” Brienne protests, lightly batting him on the shoulder.

Jaime chuckles and wraps an arm around her waist. “Indulge me. It would please me, my bride.”

She says nothing, but she answers him with the softest, most loving look, and he feels as though he is unfurling and blooming, like a flower in springtime. He would kiss her, but for the nosy eyes of that young man.

**\--- <<<>>>\---**

Cersei’s face is pinched and strained when she comes to greet them at their engagement party in London. She sneers at Brienne, after looking up and down her immense form, sniffing with distaste. She also tries to communicate to him silently with a dark look, willing him to have a private word, but Jaime chooses instead to turn to his future bride and bask in her strength. He is not above using his wench as a shield. Her large hands grip him steadily.

“My congratulations, sweet brother. Brienne.” Cersei’s mouth is stretched to a mask of a smile, but her eyes cannot conceal deviousness and jealousy in their emerald depths. She is dressed provocatively for the occasion, in a low-cut red gown that clings to her body. When once he would have been lost in a cloud of lust at the sight of her, her unseemly display does not move him. Cersei seems breakable and weak in contrast to Brienne’s power and strength, the goddess-like height and absolute force of her.

Jaime finds it incredulous that he had once fallen for such obvious machinations from his sister. He regards their six-years long affair as a bout of madness fueled by strange dependence, loneliness, and mourning on both their parts. The memories pain him still, and there is a certain leftover longing, guilt and shame about it all, but the pain is nothing in comparison to the memories he has of the war. Out of all the horrible things that war wrought, he supposes that there was one thing it was good for: resetting lives and priorities, and helping him recover from his strange obsession with his sister. War stripped him of his veils of delusion and forced him to see clearly for the first time.

Now that he has found Brienne and she has surrounded him with her goodness and steadfastness, he finds he lacks nothing. He is proud of her bearing, tall and pure as a silver birch tree. She may not be perfect in her features as is sister, but he finds her infinitely more lovely because of the mismatched imperfection of her, her uniquely singular qualities. The way she moves with deliberation and purpose; her clear, blue eyes; her honour and belief in goodness; her stubbornness and very amusing scowls.

It is all Jaime could do some nights to stop himself from kissing her senseless and urging her into his bed. This months-long engagement has been nothing but a physical trial for him and his poor cock. He has never taken himself in hand so much in all his life. Brienne is soft and loving and strong and gentle, and Jaime feels he finally knows what love truly is; he realizes that he has really only experienced love – pure, beautiful love – with his angel of a wench.

Tyrion beams with happiness for them, insisting all the while that he’s always known they’d end up together, from the very moment young Brienne punched him for insulting her all those years ago. Tyrion, of course, has his own personal reason for being happy, for he is seriously courting none other than Margaery Tyrell; apparently, Miss Tyrell found the company of the younger Lannister much more palatable and amusing than the very dismissive and dull Jaime.

Meanwhile, Selwyn and Tywin sit on leather armchairs in a quiet corner, conspiring and smoking cigars, both smugly satisfied at the outcome. His father, in particular, has the absurd notion that he and Selwyn made this engagement happen. With them being both old and slowly approaching the twilight of their lives, Jaime and Brienne let them believe exactly what they want. If they want to be renowned as matchmakers, so be it.

Dr. Snow attends the party with his red-haired intended, Ygritte, who grins rather mischievously at her surroundings and everyone in it. They seem as different from each other as day is to night, but Dr. Snow seems content, even briefly losing that faint melancholy air that seems to constantly surround him. Still, Jaime can’t help but feel a twinge of annoyance when the dashingly handsome doctor looks at his intended much too admiringly.

The quartet is playing a waltz and Jaime immediately takes Brienne in his arms, pulling her indecently close, their cheeks and bodies pressed together tantalizingly. They dance, and Brienne reminds him of when he saved her from humiliation all those years ago, how she loved him from that moment with a kind of hopeless, romantic love. In response, he wants to lick her neck and kiss the angles of her exposed collarbone revealed in her diaphanous, blue and gold gown.

Instead, he pulls her body even closer, as they sway and turn, each of them acutely aware of each other’s bodies, the rhythmic one-two-three, a heat rising between them in their proximity. The music soars and dips all around them. It is heaven holding his wench in his arms, to feel her hand in his, her gentle touch at his shoulder. She is warm and yielding and soft in his embrace, and Jaime is wholly intoxicated with the nearness of her. 

**\--- <<<>>>\---**

He is gentle as he can be on their wedding night. She stands before him bravely, her body trembling imperceptibly as she unlaces her thin silk nightgown and lets it fall to the floor. Jaime gapes in wonder at the whole, beautiful, long expanse of her. Her rosy, puffy nipples, the soft swells of the curves of her breasts and hips, the untouched purity of her pale skin, dappled all over by tiny, light brown freckles. The thick, blond thatch of her sex that makes his mouth water. He counsels himself to have patience even though all he wants to do is to delve into her depths. He is urgently aroused.

She slowly undresses him, her eyes unabashedly taking in his broad golden chest and arms, his lean stomach, the jutting angle of his rampant manhood. Her eyes darken with lust and utter wanting; her intense gaze almost sears his skin.

Brienne gasps as his mouth encloses around her large, tight, pink nipples, her back arching for more, seemingly astounded by the feelings caused by his kisses and caresses. Her body blooms and unravels under his touch and she makes the most rousing whimpers and moans that makes his insides quiver. Her grip on his shoulders is almost painful, but fuels his lust even further, and he finds himself painfully hard.

The most delicious sounds escape her throat as Jaime licks and sucks and kisses down her body to the wet core of her. She gasps and cries when his tongue explores her slick, warm folds and he tastes the salty musk of her cunt. She moans and melts when he puts a finger inside her and feels her clutch around him and become even wetter. She whimpers as he finally concentrates on her firm little numb, licking and sucking. When she comes, it is with a strangled cry and breathless wail, her hands bunching up the sheets beneath her, her hips writhing under his mouth. She moans incoherent things into the air, which Jaime can hardly hear because her glorious thighs are muffling his ears. It is the greatest moment of his life.

He almost faints when she touches him, her hands first gentle and tentative around his cock, but much more devastatingly firm and confident as she learns his reactions. She looks at him intently and studies him. She seems fascinated at his moans and whimpers, and how easily she can make him beg. It is much too easy for him to fall apart in her hands.

This is entirely different – he thinks in the midst of it all – this is entirely new. He had not really known what it was to learn a woman’s body, how to read her skin and interpret her sounds. Brienne is teaching him as much as he is teaching her. Brienne is a whole new land, a whole unknown universe. He is dizzy with her.

When the moment comes, there is a flash of pain, a grimace which flashes over her face as he enters her for the first time and breaches her maidenhood with a firm thrust. He stops, waiting for what seems like an unbearably long time for her to adjust to his size and the feel of him. He bestows on her face dozens of soft kisses. Her eyes then take on a determined shine as she starts to roll her hips up to meet his, and he is completely lost. Her movements, the feel of her, almost breaks Jaime apart too soon as he is surrounded by the tight heat of her. 

He kisses her and feels the press of her breasts against his chest, the friction of their sweaty skin gloriously rubbing together. He feels nearly lightheaded at the warmth of being inside her. Her hips meet his, fall back as the move toward that indefinable, overwhelming point. They gasp in each other’s mouths. They enter into a rhythm as his cock moves in and out of her. He feels blissfully lost in her skin, her smell, her softness. Her body opens and clenches, making him wild, making his cock swell and become even harder. Increasingly desperate, Jaime slides his fingers in between them and rubs at her swollen nub, impatient for her to take her pleasure.

The feeling of being inside Brienne is incredible, and he feels surrounded and cared for and very much loved. Harder and faster, he thrusts and rubs, until her face contorts and she cries out, until her cunt clenches, pulsing around him; she moans wildly and looks at him with her devastating eyes as she comes, and this shatters him, devastates him, until he finally, finally lets go, spilling hotly inside her as he pounds hard into her cunt for a few last, hard thrusts. Stars burst around him. After he releases, he feels like he’s floating in the clouds, his body free of cumbersome flesh. He feels unbelievably whole. He is all spirit. All is joy and pleasure and love.

He gently rolls off his Brienne – his _wife_ – and kisses her with all his heart. Her face is sweaty and flushed and the way she shyly bites her lips makes him want to plunge into her once again. Being inside her is heaven. He thinks he will always want her. Her eyes are blue and radiant and so full of love that his heart feels too full. How is it possible to feel this way? She presses against him, kissing his face all over. 

“I love you, Jaime,” Brienne says, her voice lovely and low, making his insides tremble. She draws him close, wraps her arms around him and kisses his neck. His leg rests in between hers and his arm wraps around her firm waist. He had never had this, someone who simply wanted to touch him and hold him, for no reason at all except that she loved him.

“And I love you, my dearest wife.”

Her hand idly caresses his throat and she runs a finger over the St. Christopher pendant that he still always wears, one which matches her own, but now accompanied by a vivid sapphire pendant around her noble throat. 

It is hard for Jaime to believe that he could be so happy. Even in his wildest dreams, he had never thought that he ever deserved the degree of happiness that he is feeling now, being in Brienne’s arms. He had not known that this glorious wholeness was even possible. Her skin is warm under his hands, and he feels her soft, quiet breaths on his skin. But here he is, newly married, with a wife he admires and adores – his happiness is too palpable. Like the sun, almost too bright to behold. And yet this is real. She is real, and solid and in his arms. She loves him, and he loves her, most desperately and wholeheartedly.

 _Brienne_ – his love, his angel, his wench – inspires him and keeps his nightmares at bay. Brienne anchors him to time and to this life which has grown so much more dazzling than he could ever expect or imagine. She reminds him what it is to live and love, a woman who has somehow chosen a broken man such as him.

Even now, her skin is luminous under the glow of the fire, her beautiful eyes that hold him and see him and know him. What Jaime has done to deserve this, he does not know. She regards him seriously, her mouth soft and expression tender. Their foreheads touch and their faces are so close that they are sharing the same breath. Warmth runs from him to her and back again. Her mouth is ripe and beautiful, her eyes – heavy-lidded and full of love.

Somehow, despite the war, the pain, the grief and goodbyes, despite the nightmares, the disappointments, the utter confusion, Jaime has survived the deepest of hells to arrive in a most gentle heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this story, which I loved writing. Special thanks to PrettyThief who inspired me with a delicious prompt.
> 
> This Fic Exchange as been the greatest. I'm astounded by the excellent quality of the stories. The J/B fandom is the absolute best.


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